That evening I walked through a nearby park carrying breadcrumbs for the ducks.
The air was warm.
Children laughed near the fountain.
A young couple argued over a stroller.
Life continued.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was Logan.
I answered.
Neither of us spoke immediately.
Finally he said:
"Dad."
His voice sounded different.
Smaller somehow.
"Hello, Logan."
"We need help."
There it was.
Not:
How are you?
Not:
I'm sorry.
Not:
I miss you.
Help.
The word he'd come looking for.
I sat quietly.
"Dad?"
"I'm here."
His breathing trembled.
"The mortgage company is calling every day."
I said nothing.
"The bank wants additional documentation."
Still nothing.
"The SUV payments are behind."
Silence.
Then finally:
"Dad, please."
The same word he'd failed to use when Chelsea humiliated me.
The same word he never used when I ate Thanksgiving dinner alone.
