“No. And she won’t.”
The certainty in Leah’s voice reassured me.
“I blocked her,” Noah said.
“Good.”
“I told her not to contact me again.”
“Even better.”
Silence held for several seconds.
Then Leah’s voice softened.
“I’m sorry she isn’t the mother either of us deserved.”
Noah closed his eye.
“So am I.”
“But you have me.”
“I know.”
“And Emma and Clara have declared Uncle Noah mandatory at every future birthday.”
His mouth softened.
“I will attend under protest.”
“They expect terrible gifts.”
“I’m extremely gifted at buying terrible gifts.”
“That is why you’re their favorite.”
After the call ended, Noah leaned into me.
He did not collapse.
He chose contact.
There was a difference.
I put my arm around him, and we sat in silence until his breathing settled.
We kept the weekend quiet.
For the first time, Noah rested without treating it as failure.
We cooked. Played cards. Watched more television than either of us would ever admit publicly.
On Sunday afternoon, we took Marlowe along the harbor path. Noah used the powered chair for most of the distance, then walked the final hundred yards beside me.
Monday morning, he came into the kitchen wearing work pants and the green overshirt from his newspaper photograph.
He smiled before coffee.
