The seventeen-year-old who could dismantle and rebuild a desktop computer faster than anyone I knew.
And now the eighteen-year-old sitting across from me.
Not a child.
Not a project.
Not an unfinished version of someone else.
Mason.
“I would have been proud,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you trust me?”
Mason frowned.
“That isn’t the right question.”
“What’s the right question?”
“Would you have left it alone?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because I knew the answer.
No.
At least not when he was eight.
If Hannah had told me that Mason had comforted a suicidal teenager, I would have panicked.
I would have demanded details.
I would have worried about boundaries.
I would have called his therapist.
I would have wanted to know whether it was healthy.
Then, after the fear passed, I would have been proud.
