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I want to do something for them, but I don’t know what. I tell Tristan that as he drives toward Chicago. Fallon is strapped in the backseat, facing away from us, and I’ve set up mirrors everywhere so I can stare at her precious face even though I can’t see her. She sleeps soundly like she always does in the car, and I hope that bodes well for the twenty-three-hour drive ahead of us.

We’re only stopping by Chicago for the day. We’ll head back home, pack up what we can, and then start our trek toward our new life.

But this is an important piece of the puzzle, and I’m both nervous and excited to see Logan today. Nervous is definitely winning out, though.

“What about a care package?” he suggests.

“That’s a great idea. What sorts of things do you think they need?”

He shrugs. “Meals, probably. I’m sure they’re sick of hospital food.”

“Comforts of home?” I suggest.

He nods, and we brainstorm a few more ideas and decide to stop at a store that carries basically everything from groceries and gift cards to blankets and pillows.

“Do you think we should make one for Logan, too?” Tristan asks. He’s tentative—shy, almost, and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

We fill the cart with all sorts of things like superhero coloring books, a squishy Captain America, markers and crayons, fidget toys, Lego sets, Hot Wheels toys—all things small enough to play with in a hospital bed, but also things I hope will brighten his days while he has to stay there. I think about throwing in a few cherry suckers, too, but he’s supposed to avoid sugar during the healing process. I buy a bag of sugar free suckers anyway, deciding I’ll keep them in the car just in case he’s allowed to have them.

We grab two baskets, and I put everything together in the back of my car. A few minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot at the hospital.

The last time I was here, it was to see the same kid.

A whole score of memories hits me, and it’s like Tristan can sense it. He reaches over and takes my hand in his. “You okay?” he asks.

I rest my head on the headrest for a beat before I slide my head over to the left. Our eyes connect, and I spot the anxiety he must be feeling, too.

“Not really. You?”

He shakes his head, and I squeeze his hand.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“I’m nervous to meet him. I’m nervous that Foster works here. If I come face to face with that guy…” He trails off.

“I know,” I say softly, and I glance toward the backseat. “But look what it got us. I don’t forgive him, but everything happens for a reason.”

He blinks as he nods, taking in my words. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I text Miranda to let her know we’re here, and she texts back to let me know they’ll meet us in the lobby.

We get out of the car, and he moves to the seat behind him to grab Fallon’s carrier while I move to the trunk to grab our baskets.

And then we head inside, my heart thundering in my chest the entire time.

If I’m nervous, I can’t imagine what Tristan must be feeling.

I’ve met this child before. I’ve met his parents before. I know this family, and it’s still hard for me.

This is all new for him.

I recognize Miranda immediately as we walk through the doors, and she’s pacing nervously as she stares down at the floor. Her hair is greasy, probably unwashed as she spends day and night here at the hospital, and her clothes are wrinkled.

She glances up when she sees the movement of the electronic doors, and she freezes.

I do, too.

It takes Tristan’s little nudge on the small of my back to force me back into movement, and I walk over to her.

“Hi, Miranda,” I say softly. “Are you doing okay?”

She bites her lip, and then she breaks down into sobs. I set the baskets down on the floor and pull her into my arms, comforting her with a friendly hug as she cries.

“It’s okay,” I say soothingly. I’m not sure why she’s crying, exactly—if it’s because of what her son is going through, if it’s because his birth parents are actually here. A combination of everything, probably, but in any event, I do what I can to make her feel comfortable in this moment.

She sniffles and pulls back from our embrace, and she nods. “I’m okay.” She wipes away her tears and tucks some hair behind her ear. She looks over at Tristan. “I’m okay. I’m sorry. Hi, I’m Miranda. Your son’s mother.” She says it awkwardly as she holds out a hand, and Tristan grips it to shake it, still clutching onto Fallon’s carrier handle with his other hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

She glances down at the carrier. “Who’s this?”

Tristan glances at me. “This is our daughter, Fallon.”

“She’s beautiful. How old?”

“Almost four weeks already,” he says, and she looks away from the baby and back up at Tristan. I expect a question to come—for her to ask if this is Logan’s full biological sister, but she doesn’t ask.

“You’re so tall,” she murmurs, and he chuckles. “And he has your nose. Your eyes, too. Dark eyes but so expressive all the time.” She glances over at me. “Tessa’s mouth, though.”

My chest aches as she says all the traits our son got from each of us. She knows these things about him. I’ve never had the opportunity to notice, not in the five minutes here, five minutes there I’ve had the privilege of spending with him.

“We got you something,” I blurt in the silence that follows. I hand her the basket, and she looks it over then glances up at me.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she says as she brushes away more tears.

“I know. I just…I feel helpless.” I lift a shoulder before I start crying, too.

“Please don’t. You both have sacrificed a lot, and I know that. And you…” She looks over at Tristan. “You gave the bone marrow that is going to save his life. Neither of you should feel helpless.”

The tears splash over my lids and onto my cheeks. “We, uh…we brought something for Logan, too,” I manage softly. I hand her the other basket. “I hope it’s okay. If there’s anything you don’t want him to have…”

“No,” she says, looking it over. She presses her lips together as she looks back at me. “It’s perfect. He will absolutely love these coloring books. This is way too much. You’re too kind.” She draws in a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

We both nod, but she doesn’t budge from where she stands.

“He, um…we’ve never really talked about the fact that he was adopted. I figured someday we’d tell him, but at his age, it just hasn’t come up. I’d like to wait until a better time. He’s just…he’s tired now, and he’s recovering, and it’s just a lot. For all of us,” she says.

“We didn’t come here today intending to tell him anything,” I say softly. “We just wanted to visit and see how he’s doing. To check on you and James, too. To see if there’s anything we can do.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and then she carries both baskets toward the elevator as Tristan and I trail behind her.

The elevator is awkwardly silent as we ride up together, and then the doors open. We walk down the hallway toward a room, and Miranda knocks twice on the door.

A moment later, James Wesley steps out. He shuts the door behind him. He looks much the same as the last time I saw him, but this time he looks like he hasn’t shaved in two weeks and deep, dark circles mark the skin beneath his eyes.

He hugs me first, and then he glances over at Tristan.

And then he does a double take as recognition dawns.

“Holy moly,” he murmurs. “You’re Tristan Higgins.”

“Tristan Higgins?” Miranda echoes softly, completely in the dark as to who he is.

“You’re telling me that my son’s biological father is Tristan Higgins ?” James whisper-shouts, and none of us really know how to react to that.

“Well, who is he?” Miranda asks.

“He had over twenty-five hundred receiving yards with the Vegas Aces his first three seasons, and he was injured for most of one of them. He’s caught over twenty touchdowns, he’s been chosen for the Pro Bowl, he won a Super Bowl. Christ, man. You’re Logan’s father ?”

He shrugs good-naturedly and shakes his head a little. “You’re his father. I’m his bone marrow match.”

Miranda starts to cry again, and I want to hug him for saying that.

“I’m a huge fan,” James says. “I root for the Bears, of course. They’re my hometown team. But I knew you were from the area. I always root for the hometown heroes, so to speak.”

We don’t correct him in saying he’s really not from the area, but Iowa doesn’t have a football team, so this is about as close as it gets.

“And, uh…Logan’s a huge fan, too,” he says softly, his voice full of pride. “Before the anemia diagnosis, he was out there running around in Pee Wee League. Then he started getting dizzy and tired all the time.” He pauses and sighs, and it seems like the last few months have aged this man several years. “Anyway.”

“Let’s go in,” Miranda suggests.

I reach over and squeeze Tristan’s hand, and then we walk into the room together.