“Am I your son or am I Uncle Ryke’s?” I open my mouth, but he speaks again, fast. “And I don’t mean in the metaphorical sense. I mean, biologically.” “Biologically, metaphorically, spiritually—any which way you turn it,” I tell him, my voice clear and proud and full of never-ending love, “you’re mine.” I take my hand off his shoulder, touching my chest. “You’re my son. I don’t know what you’ve read online, but it’s a load of shit. Your mom and Uncle Ryke were never together.”
