I was still struggling with the recent developments—all of them. Being with Ashley, my father, my brother, my niece, Aiden. When had everything become so completely tangled? My life was simple once. I had sex with guys for money, I took showers, I went shopping. The end. Now I could only reminisce about my former brand of normalcy.

Ashley had asked me not to hurt her, and I knew the truth about my brother would do just that. I also knew that lying to her was selfish, because the reality is that I’m terrified. I’m terrified she might hate me for something I have no control over.

It was all so bizarre that there was a part of me that was desperate to share it. I wanted to tell everyone but the one person I should tell. I needed someone to assure me that I was right in not telling her. I needed someone to allow me to feel like the victim in a crazy web of confusion before the true victims would finally know their horrible, unbelievable truths.

So naturally I told a client. One of my favorites. The only guy who I allow to know bits and pieces of my actual life. His name is Henry J. Wiler III, a dignified fifty year-old man with kind eyes whose wife died three years ago. He was madly in love with her so a new relationship was out of the question. But just like every animal, he missed the companionship. I was that for him. He listened quietly as I recounted the story for him. I skipped no details, as I trusted him and wanted his full opinion. I needed all the advice I could get, regardless of the source.

“Spencer, you seem to really care about this Ashley,” he said with a soft smile.

“I do. I really, really do. Which is what makes everything so hard.”

“That’s usually the way it works.”

“So what do I do, Henry? Because this whole thing is driving me crazy.”

“What do you know about your brother’s relationship with Ashley? Why is he keeping her from their child? Do you know?”

“Well, I haven’t really been around a lot, you know? To like, actually know what’s going on. But from what I can tell, there was a lot of power play involved. My brother is a bit of an asshole. I have no trouble admitting that. And he used to say that his ex…Ashley…wasn’t mature or responsible enough to raise a kid. Maybe there was something about drugs,” I say, the memory suddenly popping in my head.