Andrew hesitated. “He looked like me at that age.” Mark shut his eyes. “Did Mom know?” “No.”
“Dad?” “No.” “Rebecca?” “No.” “Anybody?”
“My therapist. Years ago.” Mark laughed once in disbelief. “Your therapist knew my son might be your son before I did.” Andrew did not defend himself.
That helped a fraction. “Tell me exactly what happened with Laura,” Mark said. Andrew did. His account matched hers in the major details. One night.
Wine. The fight between Mark and Laura. Andrew’s own separation. A terrible boundary crossed and regretted immediately. He said he had wanted to confess within days but Laura begged him not to destroy the wedding.
He told himself he was protecting his brother from needless pain if the encounter had no consequence. Then Tyler was conceived, and cowardice became more complicated. “I should have told you before he was born,” Andrew said. “Yes.” “I should have told you when he was born.”
“Yes.” “I should have told you every year after.” “Yes.” The repetition broke Andrew’s voice. Mark felt no satisfaction.
“Did you love him like a son?” Mark asked. Andrew breathed in sharply. “I tried not to.” That answer hurt more than Mark expected.
“What does that mean?” “It means I told myself he was my nephew and that was all I was allowed. But sometimes I looked at him and thought maybe. I looked at the way he laughed.” The way his left eyebrow lifts when he’s skeptical.
Dad did that too, but so did I. I wondered. I hated myself for wondering. Mark stared at the dark window. “Did you ever imagine taking him from me?”
“No.” “Did you ever resent me?” “No.” Andrew answered immediately. “Never.
You were his dad. You were there. I knew that even if biology turned out to be mine.” Mark could not decide whether the statement comforted or enraged him. “Then why didn’t you respect me enough to tell me?”