Tyler watched his father carefully. “Are you mad?” “No.” “You hesitated.” “I’m human.”
Mark set down the screwdriver he had been using on a loose cabinet hinge. “I have feelings about my brother. Those feelings are not your responsibility.” Tyler stared at him. Mark continued, “If learning about Andrew helps you understand yourself, then you get to do that.
You don’t owe me less curiosity so I can feel secure.” Tyler’s eyes filled unexpectedly. “Dad.” Mark smiled faintly. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.” The drive to Cincinnati took just under two hours. They listened to a sports podcast for the first forty minutes and barely spoke. Tyler eventually asked whether Mark had ever wanted another child. Mark admitted he and Laura had tried for several years after Tyler but experienced two early miscarriages and stopped.
Tyler had known vaguely about one loss, not both. “Did that make finding this out worse?” Tyler asked. Mark gripped the wheel. “Yes,” he said honestly.
“For a while.” “How?” “I had thoughts I’m not proud of.” “Like what?” Mark stared at the highway.
“Like maybe the only child I thought was biologically mine never was. And that felt like something had been taken from me twice.” Tyler looked out the passenger window. “But then,” Mark continued, “I realized that was grief talking in the language of possession. You were never something biology owed me.
You were my kid because I raised you.” That part is still mine because it’s ours. Tyler rubbed at his eyes and pretended the winter sun was bothering him. Andrew met them at a small restaurant near the hospital. Mark stayed for the first ten minutes, then left to walk around a nearby bookstore.
Tyler and Andrew sat across from each other with untouched sandwiches between them. Tyler had prepared questions on his phone. Medical history came first. Heart disease? Their grandfather had hypertension.
Cancer? One great-uncle died of colon cancer at sixty-two. Mental health? Andrew had been treated for depression during his first divorce. Addiction?
Their paternal grandfather drank too much but never sought treatment. Tyler typed notes because practical facts gave structure to emotional disorder. Then he asked harder questions. “Why did you become a surgeon?” Andrew blinked, surprised.
“Dad had a heart attack when I was fifteen. He survived, but I got obsessed with medicine afterward.” “Do you hate cilantro?” Andrew laughed. “Yes.”