Rewriting History

“The Andersons?” An older man walks out from behind one of the doors. He looks about Dad’s age, with glasses and wiry graying hair. I recognize him from the funeral. “Please follow me.”

We start moving toward a small room off to the side of reception. Sweat forms on my forehead even though the A/C is blasting through the duct. I feel physically sick with anxiety at what might be coming.

“Okay, let’s start, shall we?” Bill says as we sit around the table. He flips open a large binder. “Tony was a good friend of mine and he’ll be sorely missed.”

He clears his throat as if trying to keep his emotions in check. “When Tony found about his heart condition, he updated his will. He has requested the house be sold. He has a large sum of money, approximately four hundred and eighty thousand dollars, sitting in the bank, plus his insurance paid out just over one million, four hundred thousand. This, plus the proceeds from the sale of the house, is to be split evenly between the five children.”

I turn from Bill to look at each of my sisters to see if they’ve pick up on the error.

“Five?” Mel shakes her head. “No, I think there’s a mistake. You mean four.”

Bill wets his lips and sighs. He slides a piece of paper across the table. I reach forward and snatch it up. What the motherfucking hell . . .

“He asked me to pass this letter onto the four of you. It explains everything.” He hesitates before standing up. “I’ll give you all a moment.”

I stand, sending the chair flying back, and I push the letter away from me. Leaning over and placing my hands on the table, my voice grows quiet. “Please, for the love of God, do not tell me that any of you knew about this.”

“I’m as shocked as you are, Eli,” Mel mumbles, her expression bewildered.

I turn to Jules and Leisel, who both shrug helplessly. Sighing, I shake my head. “Will somebody please read the damn letter?” I growl.

Jules picks it up, her hands shaking. She clears her throat and begins to read.

My wonderful children,

I hate that this is how

you have to find out about Aaron, but the truth is, I’m a coward. You know about the affair, but what you don’t realize is what came of it. I think the main reason your mother struggled to cope with what happened was that it was never really over.

Cecily became pregnant with my son.

I’ve kept in touch with Aaron all these years because I didn’t want to fail him where I felt I failed you. I tried so many times to tell you all about him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

So here I am, writing this down in a letter.

I hope you give Aaron a chance to show you what an amazing young man he has grown into. I’ve included, with his permission, his contact details should you wish to get to know him, and I hope you do.

I’m sorry for all my mistakes, but I’m not sorry they resulted in my son. I hope one day you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Love,

Dad

I stand up and calmly push my chair in, turning to my sisters.

“I’ll see you later,” I mumble. I walk out before anyone tries to stop me.

I drive around the city aimlessly, heading nowhere, thinking about everything. I park in the parking lot of the bar and look at the closed entrance. It’s ten o’clock in the morning, but I need a fucking drink. I slam my fist on the steering wheel, frustrated. How could he not tell me I have a brother? Tears well in my eyes, because the sad truth is that he might have told me, had I given him the time of the day.

I glance at the address in my hands. I have no idea what I’m doing as I log into Facebook and begin searching for my brother. His name is not common—Aaron Balfoure—and knowing he still lives in Denver makes it easy to find his profile.

I stare at his profile picture, realization hitting me. I recognize him from the funeral. I’d thought he was one of Dad’s students, because he looked the right age. Clicking through his pictures, I see a photo of him and Dad. My chest feels tight, knowing the years I’ve missed with Aaron and the time I’ll never get to spend with Dad. Glancing at his posts, I see the most recent update was six minutes ago.

Soccer practice @ McAlister

Without thinking about what I’m doing, I turn the car on and pull out of the parking lot. The tires screech on the blacktop as I get back on the main road.

The sun beats down on me as I sit on the bleachers. I have no idea why I’m even here, because I know I’m not ready to make this step. I get up to leave, but just as I do, a group of guys walk onto the field—one of them being Aaron.