I quickly slipped behind a wall and watched him enter the pediatric ward.
I stood still. Nothing about what I was seeing matched the suspicion Owen’s letter had lit inside me. I slowly stepped into the ward, unable to hold back any longer.
“Charlie,” I called softly.
He stopped mid-joke, the smile falling from his face the second he saw me standing there. For one stunned beat, he didn’t move at all. Then he crossed the hall and pulled me toward a quiet corner.
Charlie yanked off the nose and stared at me. “Meryl… what are you doing here?”
“I should be asking you that,” I shot back. “What’s going on?”
I pulled Owen’s letter from my bag. Charlie saw the handwriting, and all the strength seemed to leave his face at once. Whatever wall he had built between us, my son’s handwriting cracked it down the middle.
“Meryl… what are you doing here?”
“Owen wrote to me,” I said. “He told me to follow you.”
“I should’ve told you,” Charlie began.
“Then tell me now.”
He wiped at his eyes. “I’ve been doing this for two years now. Coming here after work, putting on that ridiculous outfit, bringing toys and little gifts, and doing whatever I could to make those kids laugh, even if only for a little while.”
“Why?” I breathed.
“Because of Owen.”
