In the next room, the children were shouting and laughing. Our friends were singing horribly off-key. I was arranging cocktail shrimp on a tray, performing the gestures mechanically, as if for any other festive meal.
But Logan was silent. Too silent.
At the time, I attributed it to end-of-year stress: professional deadlines, family expectations, the feeling of heaviness that always accompanies the end of a year.
He then noticed a box on the kitchen counter, nestled among the gifts and party supplies.
It was smalland elegant, wrapped in silver paper, with a carrier’s label stuck on it. No return address. Just Logan’s name and our address, written in beautiful, neat handwriting.
“Dad, I found it near the door earlier,” our son shouted from the living room. “I put it with the other things.”
Logan stared at the writing as if he had seen a ghost. His hand began to tremble even before he touched it.
“Honey?” I asked, approaching her. “Who sent him?”
He did not answer. His eyes remained fixed on the looping letters of his name.
