“Aiden,” Oliver says, “I know the Liam Neeson angle sort of undercuts this, but you can trust us. I love you. We all do. You’re our brother.” Bittersweet pain knifes through me. He has no idea how much that means to me, coming from this man who was just a boy when I met him, all white-blond hair and knobby knees and better skills with a soccer ball than me. It’s strange, how you can know something cognitively—that the Bergman brothers love me—but how different, how powerful it can be to be told, to feel, even in this warped way, how much they care.
