“I’m coming with you, Bec,” Sam insists as soon as I reveal what’s happened.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, bounding up.
“I know I don’t,” Sam says, gathering the blanket in a way that captures everything from the picnic lunch inside it. He then shifts it over his shoulder and carries it like Santa Clause hefting a big sack of toys. “But I want to be a part of your life. I want to be a part of Mike Jr.’s life.”
We speed-walk downhill along the freshly mowed grass towards the white house. A house I spent many hours in with the best art student I’ve ever had. An autistic savant named Franny. A man who saved my life and my unborn son’s life on that horrible stormy night eight years ago. His mother, Carolyn, and I remained very close friends after his death until her grief became too
