The work was rough in places. You could see where the tools had slipped, where the proportions were slightly off, where a thirteen-year-old’s hands had done their best and their best had been more than enough. It was unmistakably Owen’s — the same hands that had made the lopsided bird hanging in my car.
Beneath the sculpture was a folded note.
We read it together, leaning close, Charlie’s shoulder against mine for the first time since the funeral.
“I’m sorry I didn’t just come out and say all of this, Mom. I wanted you to see Dad’s heart for yourself first, because I knew a letter couldn’t do it justice. I also need you both to know something: I was lucky. Not every kid gets parents who love the way you two do — even when it gets messy, even when you’re both trying so hard you forget to let the other one help. I knew that. I knew it every day. I love you both more than I’ll ever be able to put into words, so I’m not going to try. I’ll just say: please don’t disappear from each other. I need you to stick around.”
