I hadn’t heard Logan hum in more than a year.
For a moment, I closed my eyes.
It felt as though a small piece of our family had found its way home.
That night, around eleven, I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Then a gentle knock on my bedroom door.
“Mom?”
“I’m awake, sweetheart.”
Logan opened the door.
He was wearing Daniel’s old blue hoodie.
“I can’t sleep.”
I pulled back the blanket beside me.
“Come sit.”
He hesitated.
“I’m seventeen, Mom.”
I smiled.
“And?”
He laughed softly.
Then he sat beside me, leaning against the headboard.
For several minutes, we said nothing.
Eventually, he rested his head against my shoulder.
I didn’t move.
I simply sat there with my son, remembering how often I’d worried about our future.
For two years, I’d believed it was entirely my responsibility to hold our family together.
