He had never called.
“The father’s name,” Robert said, quietly.
“Logan,” she said.
He closed his eyes.
“Logan Wright?”
Her heart slammed.
She had never given the hospital Logan’s last name. She had been careful about that — careful about many things, in the specific way of someone who has learned that caring too openly is a form of exposure.
“How do you know that name?”
He opened his eyes.
“Because he is my son.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into standing water.
Joanna stared at him. She was too exhausted to decide whether she had misheard.
“Logan is my son. I didn’t know about the pregnancy. I swear to you I didn’t.”
Something moved inside her — something buried beneath months of loneliness and unpaid bills and the specific ache of standing on swollen feet for eight-hour shifts because there was nobody to call.
“He left when I told him,” she said. “He said he needed air. He packed a bag. He promised he would call.” Her voice cracked, but she kept going. “He never did.”
Robert lowered his gaze.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where is he?” she demanded. “If he’s your son, where is he?”
He looked at the baby. Then back at her.
