I took a breath.
“There’s more.”
His jaw tightened. “You met Susan.”
“Yes,” I said. “And your son.”
He flinched as if I’d struck him.
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s eight,” I continued. “He has your eyes.”
Mark covered his face with his hands. “God.”
“You knew,” I said.
“I suspected,” he admitted. “After I finally went back years later, after we married, I met Susan. We talked, cried, and drank too much. Grief does strange things to people.”
“And the child?”
“It wasn’t planned,” he said quickly. “I swear to you. It was one night. One mistake born from shared loss.”
“He has your eyes.”
“Then why didn’t you take responsibility?”
He looked at me, anguish etched into every line of his face. “Because I love you and our life matters to me. I didn’t want to destroy everything over a child I didn’t know how to be a father to.”
“That child needs you,” I said.
“I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I hate myself for it.”
Silence stretched between us.
“That child needs you.”
“They’re struggling,” I said finally. “Susan and the boy. Financially. She didn’t ask for anything. She didn’t even know who I was.”
Mark stared at the ceiling.
“You shouldn’t have to carry this.”
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