Charlie pressed the paper to his mouth, then looked toward the ward. “I need to finish in there.”
So he went back. I watched him do another 20 minutes of jokes and silly dances with a face still swollen from tears. The children laughed. They did not care that his eyes were red. They cared that he showed up.
When he came back, the coat and nose were gone, and he looked 10 years older than that morning.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
I understood that his distance had not been rejection.
***
We went straight to Owen’s room.
Charlie knelt and pried up the loose tile beneath the little table with a butter knife. A small gift box slid into view.
Inside was a wooden sculpture. Three figures: a man, a woman, and a boy between them. Smooth in some places, rough in others, so clearly made by Owen’s hands that I had to close my eyes before I could look again.
