were strange.
“I’m the brother.”
“You’re also five.”
“I’m almost six.”
“When?”
He hesitated. “November.”
“That’s not almost.”
“It’s closer than last November.”
I could not argue with that.
He adjusted Captain in his lap. The bear was old, its fur rubbed thin in places, one plastic eye slightly scratched. A blue ribbon hung loosely around its neck. Not original. Someone had tied and retied it many times.
“Your dad gave you Captain?” I asked.
Owen nodded.
“He said captains don’t leave their ships.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
I looked away for one second because there are moments when a man’s face becomes too honest.
When I looked back, Owen was staring at the bear.
“Daddy left,” he whispered.
“No,” I said gently. “Dying isn’t the same as leaving.”
“But he’s gone.”
“Yes.”
“And Mommy’s gone.”
I went still.
“Your mom?”
“Our real mom,” he said. “She
