Chapter 4
Logan didn't answer.
He just stared at the baby.
I watched the war play out across his face. Fear. Longing. Pain. All fighting for control.
Dr. Wright stood slowly.
"I'll give you two a minute," he said quietly. "But I'm not going far. Not this time."
He left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence settled between us.
The only sound was our breathing and the soft, contented sighs of our sleeping son.
Logan took a tentative step forward.
Then another.
He stopped at the side of the bed, looking down at the child he'd helped create.
"He has my eyes," he whispered.
I nodded. "And your mother's nose, I think. You showed me a picture once."
He flinched again at the mention of his mother.
"You shouldn't have told him," he said, but there was no anger in his voice anymore. Just exhaustion.
"He's a doctor here, Logan. He delivered our son. He saw the birthmark. He knew."
Logan closed his eyes for a long moment.
When he opened them, they were wet.
"I used to hate him for it," he said quietly. "For leaving. For making me feel like I wasn't enough. Like there was something wrong with me that made people walk away."
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw the boy beneath the man. The little boy who'd lost his father before he even knew him.
"And then I did the exact same thing to you. To him."
He gestured helplessly toward the baby.
"I looked at you that night, Joanna. When you told me you were pregnant. And all I could see was my mother's face. Young. Scared. And I could hear my own voice in my head, telling me I'd just ruin everything. That I'd turn into him. That it was better to leave before I could destroy you both."
Tears spilled down his cheeks.
"I thought I was being noble. I thought I was protecting you."
I felt my own tears fall.
"You weren't protecting me," I said softly. "You were abandoning me."
"I know," he said, his voice breaking. "God, I know. And I've hated myself every single day since I walked out that door."
He reached out, then pulled his hand back.
"Can I… can I hold him?"
I hesitated.
Seven months of anger. Seven months of loneliness. Seven months of wondering if I'd made a terrible mistake.
But I looked at Logan. Really looked at him.
And I saw a man trapped in a cycle he didn't know how to break.
I shifted the baby in my arms, carefully passing him to Logan.
His hands trembled as he took his son.
He held him like he was something precious. Something fragile that might break if he squeezed too tight.
The baby stirred, opening his eyes. He looked up at Logan, and for a moment, everything in the room seemed to stop.
A small, wobbly smile spread across the baby's face.
And Logan broke.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, sobbing openly, holding our son against his chest like he was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, over and over. "I'm so sorry. I'm never leaving you again. Either of you. I promise."
I didn't say anything.
I just watched the father of my child finally meet his son.
And I let myself hope, just a little, that maybe we could heal.
The door opened softly.
May you like
Dr. Wright stood in the doorway, watching. His own face was wet with tears, but he was smiling.
For the first time in thirty-two years, he looked like he'd found something he'd lost.
