That afternoon, Noah helped Michael fold the blanket and carry it inside. He placed it on the kitchen table, beside the old school photo Michael still kept in a frame. Then he fixed the loose porch step before supper, because some sons say I love you with words, and some say it with a hammer, a deed, and both feet planted firmly at home.
There is something more I want to say about Michael, because the story as it stands makes him sound like a simple man, and he was, but simple is not the same as uncomplicated.
The thing about Michael is that he never seemed to regard what he did as remarkable. He picked up a baby. He fed it. He named it. He raised it.
That was the whole of the story, in his accounting. The part where he ate crackers for dinner so there would be formula in the cabinet, the part where he signed school forms with a hand that shook, the part where he wore split boots in February because Noah needed new shoes for basketball, those parts
