and whispered,
“Oh my God.”
Not because she recognized me.
Because she recognized Mason.
She pulled an old photograph from her purse.
Two newborn boys lay side by side in a hospital bassinet.
One was labeled ELLIOT.
The other was labeled MASON.
Vanessa looked directly at Tyler.
“You told me the second baby died.”
For a moment, nobody moved.
The airport continued around us as if nothing had happened.
Wheels rattled across tile. A gate agent called for passengers to Dallas. Somewhere behind us, a child laughed. The departure board clicked and changed.
But inside the small circle the four of us had formed, the world seemed to go completely silent.
Tyler stared at Vanessa.
Vanessa stared at him.
And I stared at the photograph trembling between her fingers.
Two newborn babies.
Two tiny faces wrapped in matching striped hospital blankets.
ELLIOT.
MASON.
My son stood beside me with one
