Logan stayed with Robert until graduation, then moved away.
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For years, they barely spoke.
A birthday message.
A Christmas card.
Occasionally an email that received a two-word reply.
Then nothing.
“Why didn’t Logan tell me any of this?”
“I don’t know.”
I laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
“That seems to be the sentence everyone has for me lately.”
Robert flinched.
“I imagine it does.”
My son shifted against me.
His face scrunched for a second, then relaxed.
Robert watched him.
“What did you recognize?” I asked.
He smiled faintly.
“His expression.”
“He’s been alive for twenty minutes.”
That made Robert laugh.
It was a quiet, surprised laugh, as if he hadn’t expected himself to remember how.
“Margaret used to say the same thing about Logan. He was born looking offended by the entire arrangement.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Robert’s eyes grew wet again.
