I said nothing.
“Margaret and I separated. Logan stayed with her. I was supposed to see him every other weekend, but there were arguments, scheduling problems, work emergencies. Sometimes they were her fault. Sometimes mine. Mostly, if I’m truthful, two disappointed adults became very good at making communication difficult.”
“And Logan?”
“He was caught in the middle.”
Robert rubbed his thumb over the edge of his hospital identification badge.
“When he was thirteen, Margaret became ill.”
My arms tightened instinctively around my son.
Robert noticed.
“She had cancer,” he said gently. “She received treatment for nearly two years. Logan knew she was sick, of course, but she protected him from much of the seriousness.”
“Did you come back?”
“I tried.”
Something about the answer mattered.
Not I did.
I tried.
“Margaret and I had reached a point where almost every conversation carried years of unfinished hurt. She wanted control over the little time she felt she had left. I wanted to help. Logan wanted everyone to stop arguing.”
