Brian was standing by the firepit in the backyard of their house near Columbus, Indiana, watching his five-year-old daughter Presley giggle as she chased fireflies. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out and looked at the screen, then shook his head. Talking with Melissa was always a losing proposition. It dragged him into the past. He tried to avoid talking with her except for the times he had to—when they exchanged Courtney on the weekends, for instance. Sometimes he would have something he’d need to tell her about his schedule, but instead of calling, he’d wait until she phoned. Two birds with one call.

What could she want? Instead of waiting to hear the voice mail, he answered.

“Yeah, Melissa, what’s up?”

A pause. Then in that dramatic voice, the voice that always sent him over the edge, she said, “I saw him.”

“You saw who?”

“David. Our son.”

A deep sigh. “What do you mean you saw him?”

“His parents sent me a picture. I updated my information like I said I would and Susan wrote a letter. Then I went online. Brian, he’s amazing. He’s smart and he’s athletic—”

“I don’t want to hear this,” he said. “This doesn’t concern me or you. Why can’t you leave this alone? Nothing good can come from—”

“I told Courtney.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He glanced at Presley frolicking around the backyard, going down the slide and climbing on the monkey bars dome he had bought and put together. He’d worked hard to get the dandelions from the yard and make the grass as soft and green as he could. She was barefoot and prancing like a pony.

“You did what?” he said.

“Brian, David is eighteen now. He deserves to know about where he came from and who—”

“Listen, Melissa, I know he is eighteen, but why now?”

“Why not now?” she said. “You think there’s a perfect time to tell him?”

“No, I’m not trying to say there’s a perfect time for something like this, I’m just . . .” He pulled the phone away and shook his head. Her voice touched that nerve, like ice water on a bad tooth. He put the phone back to his ear as she was in midsentence.

“. . . and I think it would help me if I could see him and explain things. I’m not saying you have to. But I need this, Brian. Even though it scares me. And I wanted you to know.”

“Yeah.”

“I know you want it to be over. Just something we forget. But I can’t. I’m not doing this to hurt you.”

“No, I get it. I get it. And you are free to talk to him if that is what you want to do.”