How she had been working night shifts cleaning office buildings downtown to pay for Ethan’s therapy and Noah’s medications—because Alexander’s assistant always said their father “could not be disturbed.”
How she slept on the floor beside their beds when nightmares about their mother woke them.
How she pretended she had already eaten so they could have the last warm meal.
— “She said you were busy fixing important things,” Noah cried.
— “But I think… you should’ve been here,” Ethan added quietly.
Alexander didn’t argue.
He couldn’t.
Ethan pulled a crumpled envelope from his backpack and handed it over.
Inside were receipts. Medical bills. A pawn slip for a silver necklace.
And a small, worn blue notebook.
On the first page, in neat handwriting, it read:
“So Mr. Reed will know how his sons are doing when he finally has time.”
Alexander sat down hard in the middle of the hallway.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
Page after page… moments he had missed.
January 12: Ethan drew a sun today. He erased it three times before finishing.
February 3: Noah asked if his dad still remembers what Mom’s shampoo smelled like.