Sometimes I came home after eleven and found Logan sitting at the kitchen table, trying to finish his homework with Andrew asleep against his chest.
“Sweetheart, you should be in bed,” I’d whisper.
“He had a bad dream,” Logan would explain. “I didn’t want to wake him.”
Once, I discovered an envelope containing money on the kitchen counter.
Logan had sold the drum kit he’d begged for since childhood.
The note simply said:
For bills, Mom.
I cried when I found it.
He was only fifteen.
He shouldn’t have been worrying about mortgage payments.
But that was Logan.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Always trying to make life easier for someone else.
Unfortunately, grief changed him.
He stopped playing soccer.
He rarely laughed.
He spent hours alone in his room.
And sometimes, late at night, I heard the back door open and close.
I’d lie awake wondering where he was going.
