This must be how military commanders feel, or quarterbacks, or team captains. Be quick, resolute, always on the offense. Never be surprised by an attack, never fail to anticipate a play. I wonder if self-preservation is more strategy than strength. Summoning my army of wits, I say, “He shouldn’t have told you that.”

A strange current charges my son: flickers of feelings that don’t suit him. Outrage. Craze. “Why would you have talked to him about it and not me? I know it’s none of my business, either—but how was it any of his?” Without any warning or windup—without a history of violence, as far as I know—Jonah throws a right hook smack into the drywall. Pitiful form.

“Jonah,” I snap. “What’s wrong with you?”

He kicks the wall and follows up by slapping both hands against his head. Knuckles red, he grunts like an animal.

“Jesus Christ. What the hell is your problem?”

He drops to a squat, head between knees, palms smacking the sides of his temples.

“Look at me.”

He obeys, and when he does, he’s changed. A bull in the bullring, ready to charge.

“Listen to me,” I command. “You need to chill out. Do you hear me? There is a house full of people on the other side of that wall. Now is not the time for a tantrum. Be a man. Get it together. Do you hear? This is nobody’s business but mine and Elizabeth’s. Not yours. Not Nick’s. No one’s.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” I snap. The back of my brain scrambles for an excuse. “If you must know, Nick overheard me talking to Elizabeth. He asked me point-blank. He caught me off guard, so I confirmed it—but I also made him swear he wouldn’t talk about it, because first of all, I didn’t want you finding out like this. Secondly, though, there was always a high risk of spontaneous abortion simply because of Elizabeth’s age. She didn’t want anyone to know until we were in the clear.”

“Okay?”

“And this is exactly why we didn’t talk about it.” I pause, weigh my options, and proceed with the best one. “She lost the baby.”

“Oh God.” He rocks on the back of his heels, and for a minute I think he might fall down, but he steadies. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Head in hands, he manages to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The steam recedes. He inspects his knuckles and kneads a sore hand.

“Now can you see why we wanted to keep it to ourselves? It’s been very upsetting for Elizabeth. She does not want to talk about it. Nobody knew she was pregnant, and nobody knows she’s not now, and that’s the way she wants to keep it. We have to respect that.”

“But weren’t you—?” He mimes scissor snips with his good hand.