But Logan was quiet. Too quiet.
At the time, I brushed it off as end-of-year stress—work deadlines, family expectations, the heaviness that always comes with another year ending.
Then he noticed a box on the kitchen counter, nestled among the presents and party supplies.
It was small and elegant, wrapped in silver paper, with a courier label stuck on top. No return address. Just Logan’s name and our home address, written in careful, flowing handwriting.
“Dad, I found it by the door earlier,” our son shouted from the living room. “I put it with the other stuff.”
Logan stared at the writing as if he’d seen a ghost. His hand started shaking before he even reached for it.
“Honey?” I asked, stepping closer. “Who sent it?”
He didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked on the looping letters of his name.
Then, barely above a whisper, his voice trembled. “No… this can’t be…”
