It's a quiet night, or at least it should be. You're sitting at the dining table, George to your right and Bob across from you. The two of them are conversing in their secret language of glances and expressions, as always. It feels like a normal scene from your childhood until you decide to ruin it.

So… why did you never tell me that my other dad is Mick Jagger?

Silence falls like a piano from the tenth floor. Bob stops humming. George drops his teaspoon into his cup with a plop that sounds like the end of the world.

—Who told you that? George asks, not lifting his gaze from his tea.

Oh, you know… Wikipedia, the internet, the thousands of photos of them together with more sexual tension than any Hollywood movie.

Bob lets out a nasal chuckle and leans back in his chair.

Your dad shoots him a glare that could melt steel. You press on.

You want to meet him. You want to talk to him.

—No.

—No?

—No.

—Why not?

George presses his lips together, lifting his cup to his mouth as if the tea might save him from the conversation. Bob, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying the show.

—Let me guess, sweetheart he says, resting his elbow on the table. It's because Mick is an emotional disaster, a human tornado that never stops, and he probably forgot he even had a child.

George closes his eyes with Buddhist-like patience.