His expression had changed.
“Dawson?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dawson, do you recognize him?”
His fingers trembled as he reached for the phone.
“Claire,” he whispered, “how old do you think that little boy is?”Browse Reference
“Four. Maybe five.”
He closed his eyes.
Something about his reaction frightened me more than the photograph itself.
“Why?”
Dawson sat down heavily in the chair beside my mother’s hospital bed.
Then he said something that made the room seem to tilt.
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“Megan and I had a son four years ago.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
His eyes filled.
“His name was Elliot.”
I remembered.
Of course I remembered.
Four years earlier, Megan had gone into premature labor while Dawson was away on a work assignment. He’d rushed home, but by the time he arrived, she told him the baby hadn’t survived.Track Pregnancy
There had been a small memorial.
White flowers.
