I grip the steering wheel until the leather groans in protest. I never thought I’d be looking at my dad’s house again. Never thought I’d come back here or have any intention of speaking to him, but I also never thought I’d let a one night stand rock my life to the foundations. Just thinking about Stephanie makes me let out a long, annoyed sigh.

Before her, I had a system. A system that worked. When the memories started to haunt me, I just needed one meaningless night to push them back down for weeks, sometimes months. One night of control. It was like medicine to the sickness inside me. I’d be the man I couldn’t be all those years ago when she would come to see my dad, when she’d come to my room after he passed out from the drugs, booze, or both.

Maybe it’s pathetic. Frankly, I never cared. I just knew it worked. I could move on and forget.

Until Stephanie.

I look toward my dad’s house again. The memories started getting bad a few weeks ago. Worse than I’ve ever let them get. Normally, I would’ve gone to pick up some woman so I could forget, but every time I thought about fucking another woman, I see Stephanie’s face. I thought a few days away from her would get her off my mind, that maybe I was just having an off night and feeling emotional. Time away from her has only made it worse, though.

I run a hand across my stubble, growling in irritation.

Before I can second-guess myself anymore, I step out of the car and slam the door. I walk to the front door of my dad’s house and knock hard. The door swings open a few inches from my knuckles, giving me a glimpse inside the filthy space. A smell seeps from inside like stale sweat and the sharp tang of liquor. I knock on the open door again, waiting impatiently for a few seconds.

I shift on my feet and then look back toward my car. I could still just leave. I don’t know what I even plan to do. Punch him in his mouth? Yell at him? Shake his hand? Whatever my plan is, I don’t think it’s going to do anything to heal the wound I’ve been hiding for all these years. I’m about to just walk away when I see something move.

I push the door open slowly, moving inside. I see my dad for the first time in ten years. He looks twenty years older instead of ten, but he’s passed out on the couch just like I remember. A woman with scabs and scars all over her arms from needles is spread out on the love seat beside him. It has been a long time, and that time hasn’t been kind to her, but I’d recognize her anywhere.

My fists clench at my side. I realize I’m walking toward her with a red, swirling violence in my chest. I catch myself before I get too close. What the fuck was I going to do? Kill her?

I shake my head and back away. I need to leave. I can’t be here. No matter what these two put me through and how much they fucked me up, they don’t deserve my anger. They don’t deserve shit.

A strange sound draws my attention. I turn toward the kitchen, where I nearly fall backwards at the sight of a small kid who looks like he’s no older than three or four. He’s sitting on the ground with a couple toy blocks. He looks up toward me, eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

“You like blocks?” he asks.

I turn back toward the couch, squinting at the passed-out woman to search her face for some similarity to the kid. But I might as well be trying to figure out the identity of a weather-beaten statue after what the woman has done to herself with obvious years of drug abuse.

“Sure,” I say slowly. “You live here?” I ask.

He extends his arm toward me, red lego block in his small palm like a peace offering. My eyes fall on his forearm though, where a bruise in the shape of four adult-sized fingers is shockingly dark against his pale skin. My jaw clenches when I remember similar bruises from my own childhood.

He nods.

I sit next to him, taking the block but hardly paying attention to anything except the obvious signs of abuse on him now that I’m looking for them. Dirty hair. A bruise just barely showing from beneath his collar. Tattered clothes. It’s like looking back in time at myself when I was his age. The most eerie thing of all is he’s in the same fucking house with the same deadbeat dad passed out on the couch. But he’s got to belong to the woman. The thought of my dad having another kid seems too insane, even for him. He spent every day of my life reminding me how much of a mistake I was. What the hell would possess him to have another?

“What’s your name?” I ask. I feel awkward sitting cross-legged on the ground in this filthy house. I’m wearing a suit that probably cost more than a few years’ rent and I have my back turned to a man who would probably try to strangle me if he woke up, but something about this kid is tugging at me.

“Cole,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Tristan. Hey,” I say, leaning in a little closer. “Is that your mom over there?” I point to the woman on the couch.

He shakes his head.

My chest tightens. “Is that your dad?”

He nods.

Fuck. I set the block down and stand, fists on my hips as I pace around the small space, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. He’s my brother. Half-brother, but he’s my brother nonetheless. He’s also not my problem. Just being here makes me feel all the old darkness like a straightjacket. It clings to me until I think I might choke on it and all I want to do is walk away, to forget I ever made the mistake of coming back to this shithole so I can leave my deadbeat dad to whatever mess he wants to make of his life.

But goddammit. Every time I look back at the kid I can’t stop from picturing the future he is still too young to know he’s walking into. The abuse. The torment.

I take one more look at my dad and the woman before I motion for the kid to stand. “Hey. Listen,” I say quietly, kneeling so we’re eye-to-eye. “Your dad. Is he a nice man?”

For the first time since I came in, I see the childhood innocence in Cole’s eyes slip away. A much older boy looks out at me from those big eyes as he hesitates, shifting his gaze toward his sleeping dad several times.

“You can be honest with me,” I say firmly. I clench my teeth, surprising myself with how much I mean the words I say next. “I won’t let him hurt you anymore, kid. You understand me?”

Cole looks down, rubbing at the bruised area on his arm. “He’s not a nice man,” he says so quietly I almost can’t make out the words.

“Do you want me to take you someplace safe?”

He takes a step back, shaking his head furiously. “He’d hurt me bad.”

“I meant what I said. He’s done hurting you.” I don’t know what I’ll do for the kid, but I know child services would have a field day if they came and checked this place out. They’d have Cole taken away from here no problem, but it’d take time. And I know my dad. He’d take it out on Cole if child services started sniffing around. “Come on. You can come home with me tonight. We’ll take you somewhere to get help tomorrow.”

He swallows almost comically hard, wringing his small hands together. “Could I bring my blocks?”

“Hell yeah,” I say.

“You won’t let him hurt me?” he asks.

“I promise he won’t hurt you.”