Beyond Repair

Beyond Repair

By Joseph Pescatello 5/12/2025

“I don’t understand - this can’t be you,” my wife balks, waving the newsprint obituary at me. “You had a child with another woman?! After all we've been through.”

Then, ”Is our whole life a lie?”

“June, that was long before you and I even met. I’ve never been unfaithful to you,” I plead.

“Oh, I see. Supporting a woman and son outside of this family for twenty odd years and keeping it secret isn’t unfaithful? Well, I don’t know what to call it. What do you call it,” she sneers.

“I call it being responsible. He was my son - he deserved to have a father, even if it was only occasionally. And his mother deserved my support, too. That’s what a man does; he steps up to the plate for the people who depend on him.”

“What about the people who depended on you here? What about all those nights you were ‘working’ and I was giving myself fertility injections alone in an empty house? What plate were you stepping up to when your baby boy took his first steps or learned to ride a bicycle? Don’t give me that self-righteous bullshit. I’m your wife, this is your family. And, I can’t imagine how much we’ve had to do without because you felt responsible for some woman and her offspring.”

I feel my face flush and try to keep the emotion from my voice, “No one’s ever gone hungry in this house. The bills were always paid, the lights were always on. What, you’d rather have had a larger television and flashier car than my son having food on his plate?”

“Don’t you dare try to make me the bad guy. You lived a secret life the entire time we've been together. Your son has a brother he doesn’t even know about. I can’t believe it. It’s surreal,” her brow furrowed and mouth slightly open as if she’s trying to solve some crazy puzzle in her head.

“Damien, how long have you been there,” I ask when I see our boy in the doorway.

“Did I hear that right,” he responds. “I have a brother?”

“You have a half-brother,” I say after a long exhale.

“Wow, I have a brother! But, but how...”

“When I was very young, long before I met your mother, I got a woman pregnant. She decided to have the baby and from then on I supported them the best I could. I never told you or your mother because it had nothing to do with this family. Our family,” I say.

“Oh man,” he says, putting the pieces together. I’m afraid of what’s coming next, but I'm relieved when he says, “Wow, a big brother! What’s his name? How old is he? Do they live around here?”

“His name is Jason and we can talk later. Give your mom and me a few minutes, okay pal?”

“Okay,” he says, “Wow,” and then he’s gone.

When Damien was little - maybe three or four - he started asking if he could have a brother. June would say something like ‘we’ll see’ or ‘maybe someday.’ Given how hard it had been to conceive the first time, we knew it wasn’t likely. After a while, she began bristling at the question and he stopped asking.

“My God,” his mother groans, “He thinks he has a brother.”

“June,” I try, but she’s already pushing her chair back from the table.

“No,” she says, and her calm, soft voice worries me more than the cussing and yelling of a few minutes ago. I stand and reach for her, but she pulls away holding up her hands in the space between us.

“No,” she says again, tears glistening on her cheeks, and walks out the door.

Donna, the mother of my first son, is short with brown hair that is gradually greying. She wears her age well but has a perpetual sadness about her even when she smiles. Donna never married which I’ve grown to feel somehow responsible for. She did a good job raising Jason primarily on her own. Something else I’ve felt pangs of regret about as I’ve gotten older.

“You know, you did nothing wrong, supporting Jason and me all those years,” she says and takes my hand. “I don’t know many men who’d have done the same.”

Then, “Do you think she’ll leave you?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. “She hasn’t even looked at me in three days.”

“I’m sorry. You were always afraid this would happen.”

We sit silent, each wrapped in our own thoughts.

“Does Damien know,” Donna eventually asks.

“All he knows is that he has a big brother. Asks about him every day–what sports he plays, is he good at school. It breaks my heart.”

“June didn’t tell him about …,” Donna says, mildly surprised.

“She’s not talking to him, either. He was so excited about having a brother, I think she felt we both betrayed her.”

Donna had always been sympathetic to June, even when I had to be absent from her and Jason’s lives for weeks or months at a time. That sympathy rises to the surface now in the form of tears for what my wife must be going through.

I sip my coffee and take in the spare apartment. Unadorned walls and some else’s cast off table and chairs. After a moment I ask, “How are you holding up?”

She raises her head to look at me, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “I’m okay,” she says, her voice soft. “But I wake up at night and wonder if he’s home yet, like he just went out with his friends or something. When I realize…, when I realize he’s gone it’s like losing him all over again.” Sobs start softly but build and rack her bent body. I stand and hold her shoulders, my own grief spilling out in tears and snot. Grief for my first born son, his mother and my disintegrating family.

When we’ve both cried ourselves out, Donna says, “Who do you think sent Jason’s obituary to June?”