“I’m sorry I’m so bad at this,” she grumbled. “I get it if you don’t like me anymore.”

            Half an hour later, John summoned us to the garage, where he had an enormous canvas propped against the wall, a six-by-six-foot square of snowy white unconditional love. He’d already opened several large paint cans. Then he handed Bay the hated soccer ball. It took her a minute to grasp his purpose, but when she did, her chubby little face (still smeared with dirt from the day’s athletic exertions) lit up with a huge grin.

            John and I watched as she dipped the ball carefully into the yellow paint. Then she hurled it as hard as she could at the blank canvas. It wasn’t a graceful throw but it did hit its mark, leaving a soccer ball–textured yellow splotch on the white field. The wet paint began to drip in uneven trickles.

            “Now, that’s what I call dribbling,” John joked.