I realized something one night while we were watching a baseball game in the living room.
I enjoyed having him there.
Karen wasn’t thrilled about it.
It felt like how fathers spent time with their sons, even though I wasn’t Barry’s biological father.
The feeling stayed with me.
Karen noticed too.
She didn’t like it. In fact, I think it angered her.
I could see the tension on her face every time Barry came through the door.
But I ignored it.
The truth finally came out one evening.
The feeling stayed with me.
Barry had been over many times by then, but that night, something felt different when he arrived.
He seemed distracted and nervous.
We sat at the table eating, but Barry just picked at his food.
Then suddenly his fork slipped from his hand and clattered onto the plate.
Karen slammed her hand on the table.
“How long are you going to keep lying?” she suddenly shouted. “When are you finally going to tell him the truth?”
The room fell silent.
Karen slammed her hand on the table.
I stared at her in confusion. “Honey, enough,” I said.
But she wasn’t done.
“No, it’s not enough!” she snapped. “How dare you lie to my husband and not tell him what you did to his real son? Tell him what you told me the last time before you left.”
Barry stared at the table.
My voice barely worked.
“Barry,” I said slowly, “what is she talking about?”
She wasn’t done.
For several seconds, Barry had a strange expression on his face and didn’t answer.
Then he finally looked at me.And what he said next nearly made me fall out of my chair.
“She’s right,” he said quietly.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
Barry swallowed hard.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there. I mean, your son.”
Karen started crying. The sound was raw and painful, the kind that comes from years of buried anger.
“What are you saying?”
My hands gripped the edge of the table.
