I Got Home From the Oil Rig Two Weeks Early and Found My Eight-Year-Old Son Cooking Dinner for Strangers—The Messages He Never Sent Explained Everything.

When they were done, she came out and sat down next to me.

“He’s a very brave boy,” she said.

“And he’s really worried about you.”

“Worried about me?”

“He asked whether you were mad at him.

Three separate times.”

I stared at the whale until my eyes quit stinging.

“I’m not mad at him,” I said.