People moved quietly between offices, carrying folders and coffee cups, living ordinary lives that had nothing to do with mine.
“I never wanted them to need me,” I said.
“I wanted them to know I was there.”
Fiona’s voice became gentler.
“Those are not always the same thing.”
The truth of that stayed with me all afternoon.
I had spent years believing that helping Logan meant staying useful.
Paying a bill before he asked.
Signing a document because the bank wanted an older, more stable name attached to it.
Transferring money when Chelsea said the timing was difficult.
I had called it love because the other word—fear—was harder to admit.
I had been afraid that if I stopped helping, my son would stop needing me.
By the time I returned to the furnished apartment I had rented in Irving, the sky was turning pale orange over the highway.
