Chapter 3
He called Logan from the hallway.
I couldn't hear the conversation, but I saw Dr. Wright's shoulders tense. Saw him run a hand through his hair in frustration. Heard his voice rise, then fall, then rise again.
When he returned, his face was grim.
"He's coming," he said. "But he's angry. He doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm lying about… about everything."
I nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I hadn't spoken to Logan in seven months.
Not a single text. Not a single call.
I'd deleted his number, blocked him on everything, tried to erase him from my life like he'd erased me.
But he was in my son's eyes. In his fingers. In that birthmark on his shoulder.
Dr. Wright pulled his chair closer.
"Before he gets here, you should know the whole story," he said. "About what I did. About why Logan is the way he is."
I held my son closer, his warm breath against my chest.
"Thirty-two years ago," Dr. Wright began, his voice steady now, like he'd told this story to himself a thousand times. "Logan's mother, Eleanor, and I were only nineteen. We'd been high school sweethearts. Thought we had forever."
He paused, looking at his hands.
"I was in medical school. Working two jobs. Always tired. Always stressed. And when Eleanor told me she was pregnant… I panicked."
He looked at me, and I saw the guilt he'd carried for three decades.
"I didn't yell. I didn't argue. I just… packed a bag one night. Left a note saying I wasn't good enough. That they'd be better off without me."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Exactly what Logan had done to me.
"I came back six months later," Dr. Wright continued. "Begged her to take me back. But she'd moved on. Married a good man. Told me to stay away, that Logan already had a father."
His voice cracked.
"So I did. I stayed away. For twenty-five years, I watched from a distance. Paid for his school secretly. Made sure he had what he needed. But I never let him know I was there."
He leaned forward, his eyes urgent.
"Until seven years ago. Eleanor got sick. Cancer. On her deathbed, she told Logan the truth. About me. About why I left."
He ran a hand over his face.
"He tracked me down. We met. We talked. I thought… I thought we could build something. But the damage was done. He couldn't forgive me. And I couldn't blame him."
The door to my room opened.
Logan stood in the doorway.
He looked the same. Dark hair, sharp jaw, those eyes that used to make my heart feel light.
But now they were cold.
Angry.
"What is this?" he said, his voice sharp. He looked at Dr. Wright, then at me, then at the baby in my arms.
And froze.
Just like his father had.
His face paled.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"You told her?" he said to Dr. Wright, his voice barely a whisper.
"She needed to know," Dr. Wright said softly. "And you needed to be here."
Logan stepped into the room, his movements stiff. He stopped a few feet from the bed, his eyes locked on my son.
"I didn't ask for this," Logan said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"No," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice was. "You didn't. But he's here anyway. He's yours."
Logan's eyes snapped to mine.
"And what do you want from me, Joanna? Money? Child support? I told you I couldn't do this. I told you I wasn't built to be a father."
"Because of him?" I asked, nodding toward Dr. Wright.
Logan flinched like I'd slapped him.
"That's none of your business."
"It is my business," I said, and now my voice shook. "Because your damage almost cost my son his father. Because you left me alone because you were too scared to face what happened to you."
May you like
Tears pricked my eyes.
"I'm not asking you to love me, Logan. I'm asking you to look at him. Really look at him. And decide if you want him to grow up feeling exactly the way you did."
