“What I’m trying to tell you is that Tom is my son.” “Okay.” I look up. Seb’s eyes are trained on me, a question across his face. Has he realised? “He’s my son and my brother. I was thirteen.” It’s miniscule, but it’s there—a ripple of anger spreads across his face, working its way from his clenched jaw to his throbbing temple. He takes a moment, a still, extended moment, and then he lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s okay. I just wanted to say it out loud.” “And now you have.” “Now I have.” This time, I reach across for his hand.
