There was damage to Caleb’s spinal cord.

They had done everything they could.

But nobody could promise that he would walk again.

When Caleb woke up, I held his hand.

His voice was weak.

“Mom?”

“I’m here.”

“Is the little boy okay?”

I almost cried.

“Yes. He’s okay.”

Caleb closed his eyes for a second.

“Good.”

Then he said,

“If I hadn’t pushed him, he’d be the one here.”

He was eleven.

He had just survived six hours of surgery.

And his first question was whether the child he saved was safe.

Over the following months, people assumed the wheelchair would be the hardest part for him.

It wasn’t.

Losing football was.

He couldn’t run with his teammates.

Couldn’t practice in the backyard.

Couldn’t climb the school bleachers and watch Thursday practices from where he used to sit.

But every Sunday, he still watched professional football.