Fathers, Brothers, and Sons

After eying him for a moment, I stood upright and said, "No. Not anymore." Turning to leave, I tossed over my shoulder, "If I ever see you again, I'll finish what I started. Stay the hell away from my family."

It wasn't until I got in the car that I shook my hands and yelled, "Ow!" There's a reason boxers wear gloves, and it's not to protect their opponents' faces. At least he hadn't landed a hit on me; that wouldn't have been fun to explain. Bruised knuckles were easy enough to ascribe to an accident while camping.

Confronting Evan was pointless. Fighting him was childish. It didn't give me much new insight, other than that Jake and Evan both thought that Alli loved me. It didn't fix my marriage. It didn't heal any hurts.

But goddamn, it felt good.

I had a full life in that first year, maybe a fuller life than I would have otherwise. There were new friends and hobbies, and I was closer to my kids than ever. In private, Alli and I were distant, but we looked like a happily married couple to the outside world. And that distance when alone together didn't extend to our bedroom; while we were still just fucking-- decidedly not making love-- it was only slightly less frequent than when I had still been in love with her.

She was still in love with me. I knew that, or at least I believed it. I was very angry for a very long time, and when I allowed myself to think of her lies, I could still stoke that ember of resentment into a bonfire. But she never stopped trying to win me back, even as I pushed her away.

One of her attempts at earning back my trust involved a wide array of devices, apps, and protocols. Alli put keyloggers on all of her devices, a tracking app on her phone, instituted open email and text policies, and pledged to always immediately answer texts and calls.

When my wife presented all of these efforts to me, I simply said, "I have better things to do than waste my day being your jailer, especially since I know you're smart enough to get around all of these if you really wanted to." She spent the next few weeks under a cloud but never took the apps off her devices. I checked them every once in a while; I'm only human.

For my part, I stopped being quite as paranoid. Having a few more trusted advisors in my circle allowed me to lessen, somewhat, the hurt that I had. Their diverse viewpoints also gave me some new perspective.

For example, Tate pointed out, "Yeah, she was a bitch for what she did, but do you really think you're so dense that you wouldn't have found anything at all when you actually looked for it?" I thought about that for a good long while. I still didn't trust my wife entirely, but I chose to trust myself. Tate was right. I couldn't have been that blind, and even if I had been, there was no way she was so clever that she could have hidden every single speck of evidence once I started to look.

Jack's wisdom was even more blunt: "Dude, she wants to blow you. If she's been cheating on you for that long and didn't even bring home the clap, you should clearly be getting all the BJs that you can while you can." It was a fair point. Oral went back on the menu, which made Alli a little happier. The condoms stayed, though; I did my research on STD transmissibility, and while I was willing to take the chance with oral, going raw in her was a bridge too far.

As we moved from the first year into the second, things changed even more. I won't say I forgave her, and I certainly didn't forget, but my rage was blunted. When I first found out what she'd done, and for months afterwards, I was furious. But it's hard to maintain that level of anger for a long time, especially when I was trying to seem like a happy and loving husband most of the time. "Fake it til you make it" goes both ways: I faked affection for her around others, and I found it coming out sometimes even when we were alone.

And while Alli was clearly unhappy with how I treated her, she also took it almost entirely without complaint. There was no way we could ever balance the scales, but she had told me over and over that she'd do anything she could to make it up for me. Even as I eased up a bit, she didn't relent. The full court press to win me back never ended. That could be exhausting sometimes, but it also felt good to know our marriage mattered to her that much.

As we rolled through the second year post-revelation, the love for her that I thought dead turned out to be merely dormant. I was afraid to be hurt, and I hid my love behind the usual gruff and blunt façade that I'd taken to in the first year. But, eventually, that edifice started to crack.

The first chinks appeared when Isabella made me the godfather to her daughter, Cynthia. She had found a sperm donor, and I was honored when she asked me to help guide her child into adulthood and take Cynthia in if anything ever happened to her and Janine.

When I held that little bundle for the first time, I was reminded of Julie and Megan, and of what Alli had given to me. My wife watched me with tears in her eyes as I held the baby, and we connected then in a way we hadn't in a long time. I gave her a genuine and heartfelt smile; it wasn't much, but her face glowed as if I'd gotten on one knee and proposed all over again.

The next crack came when we took Julie to college. We bundled up all of the possessions she could fit in her car and ours and took the four hour trek to the state university she'd be attending. On the way, just the two of us, we reminisced about her as a child, doing our best to not cry as our first little bird left the nest. We weren't entirely successful, but we held hands and chatted as if none of this had ever happened. It felt good to not be angry at her, even if I also felt oddly guilty about letting go of the anger.

After we'd dropped our daughter off-- with the requisite amount of tears, and after we stopped finding reasons to not leave her dorm room-- we made our way to a hotel room to spend the night before returning home. I held Allison as she cried. It was such a big milestone, and we both knew that it had even more import than it did for most parents: we were now a third of the way to the end of our marriage.

Alli didn't beg. She didn't plead for me to reconsider; the dissolution of our marriage wasn't directly mentioned at all. But her deep sorrow was visibly not just about our eldest leaving home. She sobbed for a time, face pressed into my shoulder. Then she looked up at me, desperate for any sign of love. Of hope.

I don't know what my wife saw there. Perhaps she just saw what she wanted to see, or perhaps the fissures in my disguise had widened enough to make her think there really was a chance for us. But she kissed me, softly at first, and then with more insistent urgency. I responded in kind, and within a few minutes, our clothes were discarded and I was on my knees between her legs, sucking at licking at her pussy as she writhed on the bed.

Alli wasn't usually vocal during sex; she could be loud, but the sounds that she made were moans and sighs and gasps, nonsense syllables drawn from a primal past before language. I knew what they meant, though: the way her body moved and her breath caught as I sucked at her clit telling me she was close; the mewling whine of pained pleasure when my fingers found her nipples and pinched them; the sudden silence followed by loud sobs of joy as her body was wracked by orgasm. I loved them. Loved her. Hated that I did, but couldn't help it.

We made love for the first time in almost two years that night. I still wore a condom; love wasn't the same thing as trust, and I needed her to know that. But this wasn't a quick fuck or even the occasional rough taking I'd subjected her to, and which she took with an unexpected eagerness. Instead, it was the two of us spending time pleasing each other in every way we could.

There were only two condoms in my luggage, and those were there only by happenstance. I hadn't planned to have sex at all that weekend. After they were expended, Alli didn't pressure me to continue our coupling. Instead, she slid down my body and eagerly brought me back to life with lips and tongue. When I was fully erect again, she looked up at me sweetly, eyes wide as she took the full length of my cock into her mouth and throat.

I groaned with unexpected pleasure. Alli had been able to do this for as long as we'd been together, but she had never particularly enjoyed it, so I rarely pressed the issue. But now, she took my hands and put them on the back of her head, pressing them into place. My fingers wove into her hair, establishing a firm grip, and I began to fuck my wife's face, to fuck her throat, forcing her to gag and choke on my dick, to gasp loudly when I gave her a moment-- and only a moment-- for air.

Allison took it all without complaint, just as she had the venom I'd heaped on her for the last two years. Her throat distended around my shaft, bulging as she took me as deeply as she could. Mascara ran down her face, and saliva dripped from her chin. Yet when I gave her brief relief here and there, allowing her a moment to breathe before my cock invaded her throat once more, Alli's smile was broad and sinful and heartfelt.

She was overjoyed to show the depths of her devotion to me, to give as much of herself as I would allow. It wasn't a bribe or an attempt to win me back, at least not primarily. It was more akin to tribute, a gift given to the man who would determine her fate, and one given without expectation of recompense. Hope for it, yes. But no expectation.

I was tempted to finish in her throat, but instead pulled out, jacking my cock in front of her gasping, upturned face. Alli's voice, sore from the abuse she had begged for, rasped, "Mark me, lover. I'm yours. Always yours," as she stared into my eyes. That was all it took to push me over the edge. Ropes of jism coated her face, splattered in her hair, landed in her opened mouth.

My delightfully wicked wife licked her lips, then dragged her fingers across her cheeks and brought more of my cum into her mouth, sucking greedily at her coated digits. And, finally, she returned to the source, taking the head of my cock in her mouth and stroking the shaft with her hands, draining the last few dribbles from me as if she could never get enough.

We showered together later, kissing and cuddling under the spray. I brought her off once more with my fingers as her voice raised in animalistic exaltation, but there just wasn't another one in the tank for me. Three times in an afternoon was my limit. That's not to say she didn't valiantly attempt to resuscitate me once more, which I certainly enjoyed; but while the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak.

Afterwards, we ordered room service and lounged in our robes, feeding each other as we had on our honeymoon. There was no discussion of our future, nor even much of our past. We just enjoyed the present together. The world would be out there waiting for us when we left, and there would be time enough for fear and melancholy, guilt and anger. But just then, we were Luke and Allison, two people who had been in love and still remembered what that felt like. That maybe, just maybe, wanted it enough to fight for it.

My wife did tease one more orgasm from me, taking my seed into her mouth and swallowing it with a need that, while not as desperate as before, still felt completely honest and loving. As we laid in bed afterwards, I spooned up against Alli for the first time in a long time and held her close to me, protectively, like a dragon guarding its treasure. She whispered, "I love you." I couldn't respond in kind; I still had a ways to go before I'd be able to do that. But I did squeeze her and kiss her hair. She nestled back into me, and we dropped off to sleep.

It would take more than one weekend to get us back to anything approaching where we had been before, but that was the first real step, the first time I even slightly gave in the direction of reconciliation. I pulled away in the following weeks, afraid of being hurt by her again. But she had been patient for almost two years, so what was a few more weeks? Her dedication to winning me over never faltered. But there was always that fear there for me, and I couldn't see any way back from it. It wasn't a matter of love; it was still, as always, a question of trust.

I had enjoyed driving with her to drop Julie off, so I decided to take her with me on my next trip. This initially seemed to be a bad choice. I had planned a long hike but forgot that Alli was no longer anywhere near as in shape as I was. She was blistered and bruised and exhausted by the time we got back to the trailhead at the end of the first day. My wife had pushed through the pain without complaint to prove, yet again, her devotion to me, and she suffered for it.

Instead of spending the night under the stars in a tent as I had planned, I booked us into a nearby hotel. That night and the next morning were spent massaging her aching muscles and napping together, interspersed with very, very gentle lovemaking. We spent the latter half of the second day soaking in a tub together, drinking wine and reminiscing. I still didn't say "I love you" by the time we were back home, but the balance was beginning to shift; where previously it was hard to say it, it was starting to become hard not to.

There was a setback in our healing a few months later; or possibly a breakthrough. It's strange how often they look like each other. It's only with distance that we can see which one is which and how sometimes one becomes another.

Janine, Isabella's wife, had sworn up and down that she wanted nothing to do with childbirth while Isabella was trying to get pregnant. That lasted all the way up through the third trimester. But then she rubbed Isabella's tummy and felt the baby kick, and she was in the room when Cynthia was born, and she watched Isabella nurse their daughter and bond with her in a way that Janine simply never could. Her opinion on bearing a child herself did a complete 180 over those last few weeks of Isabella's pregnancy.

And so it was that three months after our hiking trip, Alli and I were once again with Janine and Isabella in a hospital room, and I was once again given the honor of being the godfather to their child. This time, however, my friends had been blessed with a son: Alexander.

As I held their second child there were tears again, but this time bittersweet ones. I remembered holding Travis in my arms, the son that was not my son. I remembered loving him and being proud, so proud, to have a boy to carry on my family name. I know it's old-fashioned; the protocol surrounding who takes whose name in marriage seems to change just about every decade. But while Travis would bear my name, he wouldn't carry on my bloodline.

Once again, I held a son that was not my son, and a sense of melancholy washed over me. I had pledged to my friends to help bring their boy up and to keep him safe should anything happen to them. I was honored to do so. But once again, I would be guiding a boy that was not and would never be fully mine. I looked at Alli with a sad smile. She couldn't meet my gaze.

The moment passed, and I kissed my friends' son gently on the forehead before handing little Alexander back to his mother. Then Alli and I said our goodbyes and headed for home. We didn't talk about what had passed between us in the hospital; there was no need. Alli felt as low then as she probably could have. Well, at least until later. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Travis graduated high school shortly after he turned eighteen. Ostensibly to celebrate, I took him mountain biking for a few days in a national forest a few hours from our home. In actuality, it was a way to isolate him from the rest of the family and give him time to process when I told him the truth about his true parentage.

Alli and I had discussed-- argued, actually-- about who should break the news and how he should be informed. I finally won, a dubious victory if ever there was one. My argument that the first thing he'd do if Allison told him was to come to me and verify everything finally won the day. We considered telling him together; that notion was discarded once it became clear how close to the surface the emotions still were. For Travis's sake, we couldn't afford to speak at cross purposes in his presence.

Travis and I had a great first day together, riding down rough trails that only barely qualified as such. We were bruised and battered, and we had both taken more than one tumble, but by the end of the day, we were in the same tired-but-euphoric state that we'd both shared before in our cycle outings and martial arts practice.

After dinner, we sat outside our rented cabin, taking in the beauty of the night sky. Glancing over at him, I was proud of the young man that he had become. He was handsome and strong; I felt more than a little twinge of jealousy knowing that I had contributed little to his physical attributes, outside of steering him towards the sports that he and I practiced together and away from football. Sorry, Jake. Fuck your legacy.

But I also knew that I had influenced him mentally and emotionally. As we had spent time together, he became more himself; not like me, per se, but blending in some of the attributes of mine that he had eschewed when he was younger. He was never going to be as into puzzles or games as I was, but his analytical skills and thoughtfulness had sharpened as we became closer. He was mentally tougher than he used to be, too. That was part of why we were there: Alli and I both finally believed he could handle the truth.

With a deep sigh, I said, "Travis?"

"Yeah, Dad?" His eyes were still pointed skyward.

The cheap plastic legs of my chair scraped against the wooden deck as I turned towards him. "I need to talk to you about something important."

"Dad?" He looked at me, apprehensive. "Is everything okay?"

I tried to give as reassuring a smile as I could, but one thing he'd retained all through his adolescence was his insightful nature. I was sure he saw through it, especially when his eyebrows raised with concern. Still, I tried. "Yeah, buddy. It is. But..." I sighed. "Look, there's no easy way to say this. I love you, Travis. I always have, and I always will. Your mom does, too. But--"

How eyes went wide. "Oh my god, am I adopted?"

I laughed; God, if only it were that easy. "No! No. But..." Another deep sigh. "But you're on the right track. Travis, you're not biologically my son."

The look on his face almost killed me. It was the face of my little boy when his best friend moved away; of my tween when we had to put down the family dog; of my high schooler going through his first breakup. Each of the smaller pains that prepare us for the greater ones we feel as adults. And yet we're never truly prepared, are we? We never reach the point where there's not a larger and newer pain lurking on the horizon.

I saw my son's heart break in a new and awful way, but I also saw all the ways it had broken before.

My son.

He was my son.

Travis was my son, and he always was and always would be, lineage and genetics and legacy be damned. In that moment, the idea that I'd ever even thought of him as my stepson made me furious with myself.

"Wh-- who. Who is my real..." No, we're never really prepared for the greater pains; there's always a worse one waiting. Travis shook his head, tears starting to spill down his face as his voice broke. "My biological dad?"

"That's... a long story." And so, I related to him the tale of a young wife and mother, so lost in her depression that she made a terrible choice. I told him of a girl who owed so much to a boy that, when he was a dying man and she a frightened, confused woman, offered something that had not been hers to give, something she had promised to another. To my surprise, he guessed the next part of the story before I got to it.