Perhaps you should.
I told myself I was protecting you. I told myself that your mother deserved peace, that you deserved stability, and that opening old wounds would only cause pain.
Some of those reasons were true.
But the ugliest truth is that I was afraid.
I was afraid you would look at me differently. I was afraid you would ask why I had waited so long. And I was afraid that, after learning who gave you life, you might decide that the man who raised you had no right to call himself your father.
I was wrong to let fear make the decision for you.
You were my son in every way that mattered to me. I loved you when you were a baby, when you were a boy, and when you became a man.
I watched you grow up and wondered whether you had inherited Eleanor’s kindness. I saw it in the way you treated people who had nothing to offer you.
