Her expression softened a fraction. “We probably will.”
Then the detective asked the question I already hated.
“When was the last time you physically saw your children?”
“Last Sunday.”
Eight days.
I had not laid eyes on my children in eight days.
Noah was in a pediatric observation room when I finally got to him.
He sat propped against pillows wearing a hospital gown too big for him, a plastic bracelet around his wrist, a juice box untouched on the tray. Someone had washed his face, but his eyes still looked older than they had last week. Older than eight.
When I stepped in, he glanced up once and back down.
I closed the door behind me.
“They said you need to drink,” I said.
He nodded but didn’t reach for the juice.
I sat in the chair beside the bed. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
There are silences between fathers and sons that feel natural—comfortable, even. This was not one of them. This silence had edges.
Finally, I said, “I’m sorry.”
He picked at the corner of the blanket. “For what?”
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