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And Uncle Alex and Uncle Sam and Grandpa, and they all said no, but, when you never came back, I thought they were lying. And Grandpa confused me. He said that you’re dead to him. Uncle Sam said the same thing.”
    His damn father and brother!
    Damian squeezed him to his body, angry with himself for putting his son through such agony.
    “Grandpa said—” Miles coughed and Damian rubbed his back. “Grandpa told me you were dead to all of us.”
    Damian would be visiting his father. He had a lot to say to the bastard. Unfortunately, that probably meant visiting Sam again too. Sam was always at his father’s side. He changed the subject. Other things were more important right then. “Will you tell me more about school?”
    “Nobody will play with me. Most of the teachers and kids know people who got laid off from the mill, and they don’t like me because I’m a Ballantine.” He made a face. “Plus I have learning disabilities—I need the resource teacher. Kids call me dummy. I am.”
    “No, you’re not. I needed the resource teacher too, and I graduated from college.” This little boy reminded him so much of himself that it scared him. “I’ll talk to your teachers and we’ll come up with a plan to help with you in a better way, and the teachers will be nice to you from now on.” Again, he bristled. Damn right they would, after he finished talking to them.
    “Promise?” Miles looked at him with such pleading and hope in his eyes that Damian melted.
    “I promise. Maybe I can help you learn how to make friends too.”
    “The boys play sports at recess. I suck at sports. Oops!” He covered his mouth.
    “I can play ball with you,” Damian said, suddenly feeling the enormity of the job ahead, but relishing it. This little boy would be his salvation. He couldn’t have Casey back, but he’d never let go of his son. “What are you good at?”
    “I’m really good at art. Everyone says so.” He perked up, even smiling.
    Ah, the art gene. Damian could draw pretty well himself, and Alex was becoming a well-known artist.
    “Will you draw me a picture, Miles? I’d like to hang it in my room.”
    Miles’ face lit up, the intensity shocking Damian and filling him with love. His child jumped off his lap, his buttocks landing on Damian’s aching leg, but Damian bit back the stinging pain. “I’ll get some paper and a pencil and make you a sketch,” Miles said, and he took off. Damian stared after him, wondering how he could have lived without his precious little boy.
    The atmosphere improved a little when Miles returned with a sketchpad and pencil. The boy sat beside him, allowing Damian to put his arm around him. Damian was impressed with Miles’ artistic skills. He sketched a jungle scene, concentrating hard. After about ten minutes, he put his pencil down, looked up at him and said, “I need a break.”
    “Sure.”
    “Well, I need to talk to you about Mom.” Suddenly, he spoke in a conspirator’s whisper and Damian instantly put on a serious face for him.
    “What is it?” he asked, patting him on the shoulder.
    Miles’ blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t know if I like you yet, but Mom does. Please don’t ever go away again. It’ll make Mom sad, and I don’t like that.”
    Damian froze. His son had just ripped his heart out of his chest. “No. Mom will be fine,” he heard himself saying.
    “Uh uh. Not if you go.” Miles sounded firm. “Mom still loves you.”
    He didn’t want to know, but heard himself asking, “Why do you say that? Because—she used to call out my name after the accident? Miles, that was different—”
    “No. That’s not all.” Miles pinned his gaze, square on. “She kept your stupid good-bye letter and reads it and cries in her room. Sometimes she leaves the door open just a crack and I can see. And she looks at your picture and cries too. She even kisses it and holds it by her heart.”
    “Wow.” Too much information. He felt as if a knife had just plunged into