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I thought I was writing about a skatepark. I was writing about everything I'd been afraid to land.

The first time we tried skating, Wendell was four. His father and I—hopelessly optimistic, briefly solvent thanks to a 2020 stimulus check—spent $300 on a custom setup.

Deck, trucks, bearings, wheels.

We bought the identity before he had the body for it.

There was no skatepark. Just a steep hill outside our house and two adults performing confidence. His…