Three days later, Helen Whitmore called our house.
She had been discharged from the hospital and wanted to thank Logan personally.
I drove both boys to her home that afternoon.
She opened the door with a walking stick in one hand and a smile on her face.
"There he is," she said. "My young hero."
Logan blushed.
"Please don't call me that."
"Why not?"
"Because I just called an ambulance."
Helen laughed softly.
"Sometimes doing the right thing is exactly what makes someone a hero."
She invited us inside.
Over tea and cookies, she told me what had happened that morning.
She had fallen while trying to reach her telephone. Her front door had been unlocked because she had been expecting a grocery delivery.
Logan heard her cries and came inside.
He remained calm enough to call emergency services and explain the situation clearly.
When the dispatcher told him to stay with her, he did.
When Andrew began crying outside, Logan made sure a trusted neighbor was watching him.
Then he returned to Helen's side.
"I was frightened," Helen admitted. "I thought I might die there on that kitchen floor."
She reached for Logan's hand.
"Then I heard your voice telling me help was coming."
Logan looked uncomfortable.
I saw him trying to minimize what he had done.
He was so accustomed to believing his efforts were never enough that he couldn't accept gratitude without embarrassment.
Helen seemed to understand.
She didn't praise him endlessly or make him perform modesty.
She simply thanked him.
Before we left, she asked whether Logan would help her organize a few things around the house once she had recovered.
He agreed, but I told her we would arrange it around his schoolwork.
On the drive home, Logan was unusually quiet.
Finally, he said, "She really thought she was going to die."
"Yes," I replied.
"And she was alone."
I glanced at him in the mirror.
"That must have been frightening."
He nodded.
Then he said something I didn't expect.
"I think I was scared because I knew what it felt like to be afraid and not want to bother anybody."
I gripped the steering wheel.
I wanted to ask what he meant.
But I knew better than to turn every vulnerable moment into an interrogation.
So I simply said, "You never have to earn the right to ask for help."
He watched the passing houses.
"I hope I can remember that."
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Secret My Ex-Husband Had Kept
The Police Officer Was Holding My Three-Year-Old Son
Part 7 of 20
