Robert’s voice softened.
“She asked whether I was good at math because he was terrible at it.”
His eyes filled.
“I couldn’t answer most of it.”
For a moment, I tried to understand the grief he must have carried—learning he’d had a son only after that son was already gone.
Then my anger returned.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of what you’d think. Of Helen. Of Mike. Of me.”
“You didn’t know he existed.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I blame you?”
“I didn’t know.”
“So instead you lied.”
“I kept putting it off.”
“Like Helen did.”
“She kept postponing the truth because she thought she had time,” I said. “You knew exactly what that cost her, and you did the same thing to me.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I was going to tell you.”
