Every time I asked him about the baby we had lost, he said he couldn’t stand talking about it.
I thought his silence came from the pain.
I had no idea it came from guilt.
The years passed.
By the time Cole started elementary school, our life seemed to have returned to normal.
One afternoon, he came home angry and threw the backpack to the floor.
“Stefan called me brother again.”
I almost laughed.
“Maybe I’m kidding you.”
Cole looked at me in fury.
“He keeps saying we have the same father but different mothers. It’s annoying.”
I felt a tightness in my stomach.
But the kids say strange things.
I told myself that that was it.
I told Cole to ignore him.
A week later, the director called.
“Cole has fought Stefan again. You have to come to school.”
When I arrived, I was prepared to apologize for my son’s bad temper.
I ran into the office and saw Cole sitting there with his swollen lip.
“Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer.
He just pointed behind me.
I turned around.
Another boy was sitting next to a file cabinet.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
His eyes were grey with Cole.
The same narrow chin.
The same little birth spot near an eyebrow.
His hair was a little darker, but otherwise it looked like someone had copied my son and placed the second version on the other side of the room.
The director explained that Stefan had tried to sit next to Cole during lunch.
Cole told him to leave.
Stefan refused.
“You may be angry with me,” he had said, “but I’m still your brother.” RequestsFamily DNA Kits for Ancestry Analysis
Cole hit him.
Stefan counterattacked.
