Chapter 7 — I Should Have Been There for You
The following weeks were difficult.
We spoke with the hospital social worker and answered questions about how frequently Marissa had left the children alone. Kate and I also consulted a family counselor about supporting Logan emotionally.
I provided the professionals involved with everything I’d gathered.
The notebook.
The call records.
The messages.
I didn’t exaggerate Marissa’s actions.
But I refused to conceal the facts.
Marissa acknowledged leaving the children without adult supervision on several occasions. She also confirmed she’d never witnessed Logan handing Mia the plastic wheel.
We began living separately while determining our next steps.
I consulted a family attorney, but I wasn’t seeking some dramatic legal victory.
I wanted both children protected.
Mia continued recovering well after her discharge. At her follow-up appointment, the pediatrician was pleased with her progress.
With professional guidance, Marissa and I established a temporary parenting arrangement. We also ensured Mia would always have responsible adult supervision.
I adjusted my work schedule.
That meant fewer overtime hours and a smaller paycheck temporarily.
But it allowed me to collect Logan from school whenever he stayed with me.
On afternoons I couldn’t manage that, I arranged for an adult caregiver.
The solution wasn’t complicated.
It was something I should’ve arranged long before.
Logan remained with Kate until my new home was ready.
I rented a modest two-bedroom townhouse about ten minutes from his school.
It lacked the spacious backyard of our previous house.
The kitchen was small, and the living room carpet was worn.
But there were two bedrooms.
One for me. One for Logan.
When Mia visited, her crib was set up in my bedroom.
On his first afternoon there, Logan stood in the doorway holding his backpack.
“Is this actually my room?”
“Absolutely.”
He surveyed the space.
There was a bed, dresser, small desk, and a shelf displaying his baseball trophies.
I’d placed his old glove on the desk.
“You can organize everything however you like.”
He approached the bed.
“Can I hang up my baseball posters?”
“Of course.”
He glanced toward the wall.
“Even the huge one?”
“Especially that one.”
He smiled.
Then he asked, “Where will Mia sleep?”
“In my room whenever she’s here.”
“Will you need me to help?”
I shook my head.
“No, buddy. I’ll take care of everything.”
He nodded.
But I could tell he was expecting something else.
A set of instructions.
A schedule.
A list of responsibilities he needed to complete before relaxing.
That evening, I was preparing spaghetti when Mia began crying in her playpen.
Logan immediately appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“I can take care of her.”
I lowered the heat.
“You don’t need to.”
“It’s fine. I know what to do.”
I set down the spoon.
“Logan, look at me.”
He did.
“You can help with Mia whenever you want. But you don’t have to interrupt your activities because she needs something. Taking care of her is my responsibility.”
He frowned slightly.
“What if you’re making dinner?”
“I’ll turn off the stove and check on her.”
“What if you’re busy?”
“Then whatever I’m doing can wait.”
He considered that.
“Okay.”
He started walking toward his bedroom.
Then Mia cried again.
Logan stopped immediately.
I noticed his shoulders tense.
He turned toward me.
“Go on,” I reassured him. “Finish your game.”
I walked past him and lifted Mia from her playpen.
She relaxed against my shoulder.
When I turned around, Logan remained in the hallway.
Watching.
For a moment, I realized just how much he’d changed.
Before everything happened, he’d raced around making airplane noises, left his sneakers in the kitchen, and negotiated over bedtime.
Now he asked permission for nearly everything.
He listened for Mia’s cries even while playing.
He studied adults’ expressions before speaking.
I hadn’t recognized how quiet he’d become until I began helping him feel secure again.
Later that evening, after Mia fell asleep, I knocked on Logan’s bedroom door.
He sat on his bed reading.
“Have a minute?”
“Sure.”
I sat beside him.
For a while, we remained silent.
Then I took a breath.
“Logan, I need to apologize.”
He looked puzzled.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t listen to you.”
He lowered his book.
“When you told me you didn’t want to watch Mia anymore, I should’ve asked why you were supervising her alone.”
He watched me.
“I should’ve made sure you had time for schoolwork, baseball, Tyler, and everything else children your age deserve.”
“Dad, it’s okay.”
“No, buddy. It wasn’t okay.”
He looked down.
“I was supposed to help.”
“You were supposed to enjoy being a kid.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“I know.”
I swallowed.
“And I’m sorry I made you believe that.”
He stayed quiet.
Then he asked, “Are you and Marissa getting divorced?”
I didn’t want to mislead him.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Is it my fault?”
“No.”
I answered firmly, and he raised his eyes.
“Whatever happens between Marissa and me is an adult decision. You didn’t cause any of it.”
He rubbed his thumb along his book’s edge.
“Did Mia get hurt because I wasn’t watching carefully?”
I considered my response.
“Mia had an emergency because she found something unsafe when no adult was there to supervise her.”
“But I was there.”
“I know. And when you realized she needed help, you made the right decision.”
“I was really scared.”
“Of course.”
“I thought something terrible would happen to her.”
I wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“I know, buddy.”
He rested against my shoulder.
“Sometimes I still think about what happened.”
“You can talk to me whenever you need to. And if seeing the counselor helps, we’ll continue doing that.”
He nodded.
We stayed together until he seemed calmer.
Then he looked up.
“Can I still be Mia’s big brother?”
I nearly laughed through my tears.
“Logan, you’ll always be her big brother.”
“Even if we live in different houses?”
“Even then.”
A small smile appeared.
“She says my name funny.”
“I know.”
“She calls me ‘Lo-Lo.’”
“That’s right.”
He settled against his pillow.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Can I start playing baseball again?”
I glanced at his glove on the desk.
“How about we call Coach Rick tomorrow?”
His eyes brightened.
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“What if I’m not good anymore?”
I smiled.
“Then we’ll practice together.”
He considered that.
“Okay.”
I stood and headed toward the door.
“Good night, buddy.”
“Good night, Dad.”
I turned off the light.
Just before closing the door, I heard him again.
“Dad?”
I turned around.
“Thanks for getting home earlier.”
I remained still for a moment.
Then I returned and kissed his forehead.
“I should’ve started doing that much sooner.”
Chapter 8 — You Deserve to Be Nine Again
Four Saturdays later, I stood beside a Little League baseball field with a diaper bag in one hand and snacks in the other.
Mia sat in her stroller wearing a tiny baseball cap that kept slipping over her eyes.
Logan stood beside me in his uniform.
He seemed nervous.
“Coach says I can play second base.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I haven’t practiced in a long time.”
“I know.”
“What if I make a mistake?”
“Then you’ll be just like every other kid playing today.”
He gave me an uncertain look.
I smiled.
“That’s what practice is for.”
He adjusted his cap.
Across the field, Coach Rick waved.
“Logan! Come on, buddy!”
Logan stepped forward.
Then hesitated.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you need me to stay with Mia?”
I glanced at our daughter.
She was concentrating on removing one of her socks.
“Nope. I’ve got everything covered.”
“What if she cries?”
“I’ll comfort her.”
“What if she needs a diaper change?”
“I’ll handle that too.”
He paused.
“What if you need help?”
I crouched beside him.
“Then I’ll ask another adult.”
He studied my face.
Then he smiled.
Not the cautious smile I’d seen during the past few weeks.
His familiar smile.
The one that made his eyes narrow with happiness.
“Okay, Dad.”
I squeezed his shoulder.
“Go enjoy yourself.”
He hurried toward the field.
And for the first time in months, he didn’t turn around to check whether Mia needed him.
He simply ran.
I settled onto the bleachers with Mia beside me.
Kate arrived shortly afterward and sat on my other side.
“How’s he feeling?” she asked.
“A little nervous.”
“He’ll do great.”
We watched Logan take his position.
The first ball rolled directly between his feet.
He reacted too late.
The runner reached first base.
Logan’s shoulders sank.
He glanced toward the bleachers.
For a moment, I worried he’d feel embarrassed.
Then I stood.
“You’re doing fine, Logan! You’ll get the next one!”
He looked toward me.
I raised my thumb.
He nodded.
During the next inning, he caught a short throw and helped make an out.
His grin was visible even from the bleachers.
Mia clapped along with everyone else.
“Lo-Lo!” she squealed.
Kate laughed.
“She’s definitely his biggest supporter.”
I looked at my daughter.
She was healthy.
Happy.
Safe.
And she adored her older brother.
I remembered the day she was born.
Logan had stood beside her hospital bassinet, barely tall enough to peek inside.
He’d asked permission to hold her.
I’d helped him sit with a pillow across his lap.
He’d studied her tiny face and whispered, “Hi, Mia. I’m your big brother.”
I’d felt incredibly proud.
Somewhere along the way, that loving promise had become a responsibility he never should’ve carried.
By the fourth inning, Logan stepped up to bat.
He missed the first pitch.
And the second.
I watched him reposition his feet as Coach Rick had taught him.
The next pitch arrived.
He swung.
The bat made a sharp cracking sound.
The ball rolled between two infielders.
Logan dropped his bat and sprinted.
“Go, Logan!” Kate shouted.
I jumped to my feet.
“Keep running, buddy!”
He safely reached first base.
His teammates cheered from the dugout.
Logan glanced toward us.
I lifted both arms.
Mia waved excitedly.
“Lo-Lo!”
He laughed.
A carefree, wholehearted laugh.
One I hadn’t heard in far too long.
After the game, he raced across the grass, carrying his cap.
“Dad! Did you see that?”
“I sure did!”
“I got a hit!”
“You absolutely did!”
He hugged me so enthusiastically that the diaper bag nearly slipped off my shoulder.
Then he crouched beside Mia’s stroller.
“Hey, Mia!”
She squealed and reached toward him.
Logan laughed and gently touched her fingers.
“Did you watch me play?”
“Lo-Lo!” she exclaimed.
He looked up, smiling.
“She likes baseball.”
“I think she really likes her brother.”
He grinned.
Then glanced at my watch.
“Are we heading home?”
“Not yet. I thought we’d get some ice cream first.”
His eyes widened.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Can Tyler come too?”
“His mom is meeting us there.”
Logan raised his fist excitedly.
“Yes!”
He started running toward his friend.
Halfway across, he stopped and turned.
“Dad!”
“Yes?”
“Are you absolutely sure you don’t need help with Mia?”
I glanced at my little girl, sitting securely in her stroller beside me, happily chewing an age-appropriate teething toy.
Then I looked toward my son.
Nine years old.
Grass stains covering his pants.
Dust on his sneakers.
His baseball glove swinging from one hand.
For three months, he’d changed diapers, comforted a crying toddler, and squeezed homework between responsibilities no child should have carried alone.
He’d missed baseball practices. He’d missed birthday celebrations. He’d missed precious afternoons with friends.
And when a frigh.ten.ing emergency occurred, he’d been made to feel responsible.
I couldn’t return those lost afternoons. I couldn’t erase his memories of Mia struggling to breathe.
And I knew one baseball game wouldn’t suddenly make everything better.
But I could make certain those responsibilities never fell on him again.
“No, Logan,” I answered. “I’ll take care of your sister.”
He smiled.
“Okay!”
He turned to leave.
“Hey, buddy!”
He looked back.
“Just one more thing.”
“What?”
I smiled.
“You’re nine years old. You deserve to enjoy being nine.”
He laughed.
Then he sprinted across the grass toward Tyler, his sneakers scattering little clouds of dust.
Mia watched him disappear.
“Lo-Lo!” she called.
I kissed her head.
“He’s going to be all right, sweetheart.”
I wasn’t certain whether those words were for her or for me.
But for the first time in weeks, I truly believed them.
I once believed being a good father meant working hard enough to provide everything my children needed.
A beautiful home.
Quality schools.
A refrigerator full of food. A comfortable life.
I’d devoted years to providing those things.
And I’d nearly overlooked what my son needed most.
A father who listened. A father who paid attention.
Someone who understood that loving a younger sister should never require sacrificing childhood.
My son had spent three months doing everything he could to be a wonderful big brother.
Now it was my turn to become the father he deserved.