Some nights I went home afterward and cried in the car before I even made it inside, grieving a version of my son’s childhood I’d only ever get to know secondhand, through someone else’s memories. But I kept showing up.
The boys started spending Sunday afternoons together at my parents’ house. At first, everything turned into a competition — who could run faster, who drew better, who got the bigger slice of cake. Then they started noticing the strange overlaps. Both of them hated peas. Both slept with one foot hanging off the edge of the blanket. Both drew the exact same lopsided five-pointed star without ever comparing notes.
Once, Ethan accused Owen of copying his drawing.
“I drew mine first,” Owen shot back.
Five minutes later, they were lying flat on the floor building the same crooked block tower, shoulder to shoulder, like the argument had never happened.
