He talked about how the father had been hiding money in offshore accounts, and how the mother had not found out until it was already too late, until the money was gone and there was nothing to be done.

“Why are you telling me this, Leo?” I asked him, very softly.

He looked down at his plate and pushed a piece of pasta with his fork.

“No reason,” he said.

But there was a reason.

My son always had a reason.

I simply had not yet understood how much my quiet, watchful boy already knew, or for how long he had been carrying it alone.

That was the thought that would haunt me most in the weeks to come, more than the affair, more even than the money: how long my son had been alone with the truth.