I decided that I would not, ever, poison Leo against his father.

It would have been so easy, and so satisfying, and so understandable.

I had every fact on my side.

I could have told my son, truthfully, exactly what kind of man Luca was, could have narrated each betrayal, could have made sure Leo grew up hating the person who had hurt us both.

And a wounded part of me wanted to.

But I understood, sitting in that parking garage with my son’s hand on my shoulder, that doing so would be its own kind of harm — that a child who is taught to hate his own father is taught, at some level he cannot articulate, to hate the half of himself that came from that father.