Confusion crossed his face.
“You’re his father whether I forgive you or not.”
I sat opposite him.
“What you do with that is your responsibility.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then I’ll earn the rest.”
“No.”
His brow furrowed.
“You don’t earn fatherhood like a prize.”
I looked at Ethan.
“You show up.”
Logan lowered his head.
“Then I’ll show up.”
That evening, after he left, I found something on the table.
A small photograph.
It showed two young women standing beneath a flowering tree.
They looked almost identical.
One was Margaret.
The other had to be Elizabeth.
On the back, Logan had written:
My two mothers, in different ways.
I thought Ethan should know their faces someday.
Beneath the photograph lay another folded paper.
At first I assumed it was a note.
It wasn’t.
It was a copy of a lease.
A small apartment.
Three streets away.
