"And you let me." His voice broke. "That's what I keep coming back to. You let me be the guy who doesn't know. For fourteen years. Every August you'd get those headaches and lie in the dark and I'd bring you ice packs and close the blinds and think I was taking care of you. And you were in there grieving a child I didn't know existed, and I was out here in the hall being a fool."
"You weren't a fool," Natalie said. "You were the only good thing. You were—"
"Let me finish."
She stopped.
He looked at her across the table for a long time.
"I need to know if there's anything else," he said. "Anything. Because I can't do this twice. If there's anything else you've been carrying, you need to put it down right now, on this table, today. And then we'll see."