I LOOKED AT LOGAN, DEBATING WHETHER I should punch him or not. On the one hand, he had done this for his daughter–his daughter—who was most likely dead by now. But how much would I be willing to give up to save my mom, my mom who was most certainly dead? I would’ve sacrificed myself for her.
I remembered a ten-year-old me looking for my mom’s broken body underneath the rubble of the house we’d once lived in. While I had crawled through the debris, scraping my knees and hands, I’d known she was dead. But still, I had wanted to find her body, wanted to prove to myself she was or that, by some miracle, she wasn’t. I’d found her all right. Dead. But I couldn’t rest until I knew that, knew for sure.
If I’d been willing to do that for my mom, I could understand why Logan would do this for his
