Hera and I never had children of our own, so Bill slowly became the center of our world. I taught him how to ride a bike. I helped him with homework. I cheered at every one of his Little League games.
He called me “Dad” by the time he was five.
The first time he said it, I didn’t correct him. Neither did Hera. We told ourselves it was easier that way.
Bill grew into a thoughtful, intelligent kid. He loved science and spent hours building strange little gadgets from spare electronics I brought home from work.
Sometimes he asked questions about Liam. I always answered honestly.
“Your father was the bravest man I ever knew,” I would tell him.
Bill would listen quietly, his wide eyes full of curiosity.
For years, our lives felt stable and peaceful.
But everything changed when Bill turned twelve.
It started with small things. He became quieter than usual. He spent more time alone in his room. Sometimes Hera would knock on his door, and he would quickly hide something inside his desk drawer.
At first, we assumed it was normal pre-teen behavior. Kids grow up. They become more private.
But Hera began noticing things I didn’t.
One evening, after Bill had gone to bed, she sat across from me at the kitchen table with a troubled expression.
“I think Bill is hiding something,” she said.
I frowned. “What kind of something?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
