Tyler glanced at me again, something like shame and resolve braided in his expression. “Yes, Your Honor. I want to do right by my son.”
A custody case spun out from there—a new orbit, a new set of filings. I stayed out of it formally. Informally, I watched a man I’d never met bring diapers and a binder full of parenting class certificates to each status conference like talismans. I watched my sister try to shift the narrative and fail because the facts finally had edges that cut through charm.
One afternoon, after a long hearing where the court set a temporary visitation schedule, Tyler caught me in the hallway. “Ms. Wilson,” he said, awkward, earnest. “I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry for the mess.”
“Take care of him,” I said, surprised at the softness in my own voice. “That’s all that matters.”
He nodded. “I will.”
At home, I opened a new savings account and named it something practical—nothing poetic—and set up a monthly transfer to it. Not for Sarah. Not for my parents. For the version of that child who would someday need a class trip fee or an algebra tutor or a winter coat that didn’t itch. I told no one. It wasn’t absolution. It was a weather forecast.