Chapter 17 - Ethan's Question
Ethan asked me whether I would meet Sophia at a café in Boston. The request arrived through Noah, not because Ethan wanted to hide behind his brother, but because he wasn't certain direct contact would be welcome. I appreciated the caution and told Noah I would answer Ethan myself.
I wrote: Thank you for asking. I don't want a personal meeting with Sophia. If she has information relevant to the old records, she can send it through our attorneys.
Ethan replied: I understand. I'm sorry for putting you in that position.
I stared at the message, then called him. He answered on the second ring.
"You didn't do anything wrong by asking," I said. "I said no because I don't want the meeting. Those are two separate things."
"Mom thinks she owes you a conversation."
"She may owe me many things. She doesn't get to decide which ones I have to receive."
He was quiet. "I keep feeling like I should fix something."
I sat at the kitchen table, remembering how often Noah had tried to fix my exhaustion without knowing the full story behind it.
"Ethan, your mother made choices before you were born. You are allowed to be angry about them. But you don't have to become a messenger between people who have lawyers and phones."
"Dad says that too."
"Then for once he and I agree without a conference room."
Ethan laughed.
The conversation should have ended there. Instead, he admitted he had been struggling at school. Some of his classmates knew the story, or thought they did. They treated him like the beneficiary of a conspiracy. Others assumed he had done something to get Noah's attention. He had stopped going to a student club because the questions exhausted him.
"Have you told the adviser?" I asked.
"I don't want to sound fragile."
"Fragile isn't the same thing as asking people to stop bothering you."
We talked about the practical steps available through his student support office. I did not offer to call on his behalf. He was eighteen, just as Noah had been when the truth surfaced, and he deserved control over his response.
After we hung up, I called Noah, who was already aware Ethan had been upset. He appreciated that I hadn't repeated the details Ethan shared.
"You're getting good at privacy," he said.
"Don't sound surprised."
"I watched you call my school when I forgot a permission slip at twelve."
"You were twelve."
"You called again when I was seventeen."
That was unfortunately true.
A few weeks later, Ethan came to our Providence apartment for dinner. He and Noah had an argument about a historical documentary. The disagreement began with a question about whether a narrator had overstated the certainty of the surviving evidence. Ethan believed the filmmakers had done a reasonable job. Noah wanted citations for every claim.
"People are allowed to say something without publishing the entire archive," Ethan complained.
"And people are allowed to ask how you know," Noah replied.
I nearly choked on my tea.
The two of them looked at me.
"Nothing," I said, laughing. "Continue your very normal brotherly argument."
They did.
It comforted me more than an emotional declaration might have. They were no longer treating each other as walking evidence of betrayal. They had acquired enough ordinary familiarity to disagree about a movie.
Later, while washing dishes, Ethan told me Sophia had started seeing a counselor on her own and was working away from Vincent's companies. He said she seemed different, but he didn't know whether to trust that difference.
"You can watch what she does," I said. "You don't have to decide who she is forever."
He nodded.
"Do you think she's a bad person?"
The question was impossible to answer with one word. "I think she made a very serious choice that hurt people for eighteen years. I won't minimize that. I also don't know every part of her life. You get to make your own judgment about being her son."
"I thought you'd hate me for defending her sometimes."
"You don't owe me a performance of hatred."
He dried the last plate and set it in the cupboard.
"Noah said that once," he murmured.
"Then he's listening when I talk. Miracles happen."
When he left, Noah remained in the doorway watching his brother walk toward the station. He looked almost shy when he turned to me.
"I'm glad you like him."
"I do."
"It makes everything easier."
"Not everything," I said. "But some things."
A few days later, Sophia sent a letter through Janet. It contained no new facts and no request for a reply. She acknowledged again that she had falsified correspondence and failed to consider Noah's life. Janet asked whether I wanted to read it.
I thought about it for an entire afternoon. Then I said yes, read it once, and placed it in the archive. I felt no sudden forgiveness. I also felt less compelled to imagine another confrontation.
Ethan was not responsible for delivering the letter or for deciding whether it mattered. I made sure he knew that.
During his next visit, Ethan asked whether we could walk to the bakery near my old apartment. He remembered Noah mentioning it during their first conversations. We bought rolls and sat on a bench while he described how strange it felt to be angry with Sophia and still want to know whether she had eaten lunch. I told him affection did not make his judgment false. He said he wished someone had explained that earlier. We talked about college, weather, and whether historians should be allowed to argue about dates they could not prove. By the time we returned, he seemed lighter. I realized that listening to Ethan was not a betrayal of what his mother had done to me. It was an adult choosing not to add another injury to a younger person's life.
May you like
That Sunday, Noah called to discuss a difficult mathematics assignment. Ethan was visiting his dorm room and shouted a joke from the background. Noah told him to be quiet. They argued briefly, then both laughed.
I listened to the noise and felt something loosen. Our family story had begun with two boys who grew up under separate versions of the truth. It was beginning to include two young men who could choose to spend an ordinary Sunday together without asking their mothers how to feel about it.
