After Ethan’s examination, a nurse helped me settle into a quieter recovery room.
The hospital grew darker outside.
Lights appeared in office windows across the street.
Ethan slept beside me in his bassinet, wrapped in a striped blanket.
I placed Logan’s letter on the table.
For nearly an hour, I didn’t touch it.
At seven-thirty, Marisol called.
The moment I answered, she shouted, “Is he here?”
I laughed for what felt like the first genuine time in months.
“He is.”
“And?”
“Perfect.”
Marisol began crying loudly enough that I had to move the phone away.
“I knew it,” she said. “I told you. That boy was waiting for Tuesday.”
“You said Wednesday.”
“Well, babies enjoy proving adults wrong.”
I smiled.
Then I told her about Robert.
There was a long silence.
“His father?” she finally said.
“Apparently.”
“And Logan came looking for you?”
“You knew.”
“He came to the diner.”
