While I worked, my youngest, Andrew, went to the daycare at the end of our block, and Logan picked him up at 3:15 every afternoon after school without being asked or reminded.
On days when Logan had no school, he stayed home with Andrew so I could work my double shifts without paying for an extra day of care we couldn’t easily afford.
It had been this way since their father passed away two years ago, and Logan had never once complained about it.
He stayed home with Andrew so I could work my double shifts.
“You’re good with him,” I told Logan once, watching him coax Andrew through a particularly unreasonable bout of refusing to eat anything orange.
“He’s easy,” Logan said, shrugging.
The more I thought about it on the drive home, the tighter my hands clenched around the steering wheel. I couldn’t stop imagining the worst.
I turned into our street and the first thing I saw was Officer Benny standing in my driveway. I knew him.
I couldn’t stop imagining the worst.
He was holding Andrew.
Andrew was asleep on his shoulder, one small hand still wrapped around a half-eaten cracker.
For a moment, I just sat in the car and looked at that image because I needed to understand it before I moved. My toddler was fine. I got out of the car and crossed the driveway fast.
“What’s going on, Officer?”
“Is this your son?” Officer Benny nodded at Andrew.
“Yes. Where’s Logan? What happened?”
He was holding Andrew.
“Ma’am, we need to talk about your older son. But I want you to know right now, it’s not what you’re expecting.”
Officer Benny turned toward the house, still carrying Andrew, and I followed him inside, not knowing what that sentence meant.
Logan was standing at the kitchen counter, holding a glass of water.
He looked at me the way he used to when he was little and something had gone wrong at school. That mix of trying to look calm and not quite pulling it off told me something was really wrong.
I followed him inside, not knowing what that sentence meant.
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