Things are hard, and the world gets blurry.
At least, it does during the day - but at night (at first), when he's almost asleep things are clear, and he knows. He thinks to himself, "Logan hasn't cried in a while," and then he realizes that the last time he saw his son, he was in a crib, trying to eat his own foot. He remembers that he methodically packed a duffel bag, and called Sara's parents, and told them that their daughter was dead, and they needed to pick up their grandson. He remembers walking out the door to the sound of Logan's wails, and then sleep sucks him in, and in the morning, he doesn't remember a thing.
The truth is, he could never do the whole parenting thing on his own. He could never possibly do all that Sara does, and then all that he does, but mixed together. Logan Evans would hate him one day for trying, and he can't bear the thought of that, so he doesn't - his brain makes his decision for him, on that one.
Now, he remembers picking out names with her - she'd told him they should really just look at the baby, and then name him (or her,) on the spot, but he'd wanted to be ready...in his own way. He'd pulled out a stack of comic books and fanned them out on the coffee table, grinning over at her as she tried her hardest not to laugh. She wound up on her side, her hand on her stomach and her head in his lap as he pointed out names in his favorite comics. She traced her finger over a few letters, gave him a small smile, and said softly, "Logan. I like that one."
Now, he remembers the doctor in the delivery room, telling her to push on the count of three. He remembers looking over at her, and through her pain, and tears, and sweat, her giving him a sneaky little smile, and pushing on the count of two, much to the doctor's surprise. He remembers the first time he cradled his son in his arms - the first time he watched Sara hold him, and tap him on the nose. "Little Logan Evans," she'd cooed, grinning up at him, "say hi to your new best friend, daddy."
Now, he remembers Sara sitting on the couch, Logan in her arms, and a glass of grape Kool-Aid on the coffee table in front of her. He'd sat down next to her and scooped the baby out of her arms, making a face and watching Logan laugh up at him. Sara crouched down in front of them, dipping her finger into the glass and hold it up to Logan's lips. "If you're gonna be a part of our family, little man," she'd murmured, "you have to know what the right things in life are - and grape Kool-Aid? Very, very right." The baby had sucked the liquid off his mother's finger, then gurgled happily, and Sara had kissed him softly, looking happier than ever.
Now, he remembers everything, and the clarity of it all is stifling - things are too sharp, too bold, too there. He wishes for the blurriness, he longs for it and begs it to come, but it doesn't. He sits down on Logan's bed, watching as he fixes up his plane, and puts a hand on the kid's shoulder. He takes a breath, and opens his mouth to speak.
Things are hard, and the world stays clear.