A father.
A son.
A grandson.
A badly assembled bookshelf.
Maybe this was what healing looked like when nobody was performing it for an audience.
Six months passed.
Then nine.
I went back to work part-time at a bakery closer to home.
Marisol helped me find it through a cousin.
Logan continued construction work and began taking evening courses in project management.
“I spent years starting things and never finishing them,” he told me.
“I’d like to change that.”
“Don’t do it to prove something to me.”
“I’m not.”
He smiled.
“I’m doing it because I’m tired of proving things to myself.”
I liked that answer.
Our relationship remained careful.
But careful did not mean cold.
There were evenings when Ethan fell asleep between us on the sofa and neither Logan nor I moved because waking him seemed criminal.
There were mornings when Logan brought coffee exactly the way I liked it.
