My eyes snapped toward him.
“He left because he was afraid of leaving?”
“Yes.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“No,” Robert said. “Fear often doesn’t.”
He told me Logan had arrived unexpectedly at Robert’s house one rainy evening, carrying the same brown duffel bag he had taken from our apartment.
Father and son had not seen each other in almost five years.
Logan stood on the porch for nearly ten minutes before knocking.
When Robert opened the door, Logan’s first words were:
“I’m going to be a father, and I think I’ve already ruined it.”
For the first time in years, they talked until sunrise.
Not about Joanna.
Not at first.
They talked about Margaret.
About missed weekends.
About a seventeen-year-old boy who had interpreted exhaustion as rejection.
About a father who had mistaken financial responsibility for emotional reliability.
About two men who had allowed pride to preserve a misunderstanding long after they had forgotten why they were protecting it.
