For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood him.
I glanced at the name embroidered on his coat.
ROBERT WRIGHT, M.D.
Then back at him.
“Your son?”
“Yes.”
My first reaction wasn’t anger.
It was confusion.
Logan had spoken about his family so rarely that I had learned not to ask questions. When we first met, he told me his mother had died when he was young. Months later, when I asked whether his father was still alive, he had gone quiet.
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Eventually he said, “For all practical purposes, no.”
I had assumed that meant death.
Apparently, it didn’t.
“He told me he didn’t have family,” I whispered.
Robert’s expression tightened.
“For many years, he believed that.”
“Believed it?”
He looked at my baby again.
“There are truths people tell themselves long enough that they begin to feel exactly like facts.”
That answer irritated me.
