A small motion of his head told her she was correct.

“Which congenital heart defect?”

“Tetralogy of Fallot.”

“But . . .”

“It’s treatable,” he finished, anticipating her confusion.

“Exactly.”

“It’s definitely treatable now, but it was even in those days.” He watched the leaf track down her forearm. “Patients with her condition have to be followed closely long-term. Often, they develop a leaky valve, and they might need valve replacement surgery. My mother was a terrible patient. She smoked. She drank. She didn’t take her meds. She never went to doctor’s appointments.”

“Why?”

“I think because she’d had her fill of hospitals and doctors. When she was a teenager, she basically gave the middle finger to her condition and decided to live her life as if she hadn’t been born with a heart defect. Eventually . . . tetralogy of Fallot had the last word.” A breeze whisked the maple leaf away.

Sebastian flopped onto his back and stuck a forearm behind his head. Leah rose onto her own arm and looked down at him. Grooves marked his forehead.

“How did you deal with her loss, emotionally?” she asked.

“I didn’t. I’ve since learned that trauma splits an event from its emotion. My mom’s death was the most terrible thing that could have happened to me. But when it happened, I felt cold and hard inside. That’s all.”

Sorry seemed far too trite and small a word. She picked up a waxy magnolia leaf, arranged his free arm just the way hers had been arranged moments before, and swept the leaf’s tip delicately along the inside of his strong forearm. “Did CPS try to contact her family?”

“No. She refused to accept the fact that she was dying until just a few weeks before she did. At that point, she clearly specified that she wanted me to become a ward of the state of Georgia.”

“Because?”

“Because she wasn’t going to let me anywhere near her family, and she didn’t have anybody else. She loved the mountains of northern Georgia and wanted me to grow up there.” His lips firmed. “I think she believed the odds were best for me in foster care.”

“Do you think you would have been happier with her family?”

“No. My foster parents were all good people who were fostering kids for the right reasons. They weren’t the problem. By the time I went to them, I was the problem.”

“How so?”

“My attitude.”

“Elaborate.”

“I was reclusive. Argumentative. Bitter. I hated the first family who took me in, even through they tried their best to help me.”

“You were an eight-year-old child whose only family member died. Dylan was around that same age when my mother left. I saw how that affected him. He floundered, too, and I understood why. His grief was warranted. His anger was warranted. So was yours.”

Sebastian didn’t reply.