“He’s processing emotions,” she would say calmly while chaos unfolded behind her.
I never argued openly, but privately I believed something was missing — accountability.
Still, I convinced myself nothing would go wrong.
The afternoon of the celebration arrived warm and bright. Relatives filled my driveway with laughter and folding chairs. Sunlight reflected perfectly off the Corvette’s polished surface, and for the first time in years I allowed myself to feel proud without guilt.
Logan circled the car slowly, unusually quiet. His hands stayed behind his back as if he were studying a museum exhibit rather than a vehicle. The silence felt strange enough that I crouched beside him.
Continue on the next page:
