The night was tense, the porch light flickering above you as you stood with your arms crossed, defiant. Simon paced in the yard, his voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet.

“You had eleven years to tell me,” he hissed.

“This isn’t the time, Simon,” You snapped, your hand resting protectively on your son’s shoulder.

“How old are you?” Simon’s voice cracked, his eyes narrowing on the boy.

“Don’t answer him,” You warned, your tone steady but urgent.

Simon stepped closer, his voice rising. “How old are you, kid?!”

“Eleven!” the boy blurted, his wide eyes darting between them. “Now why is everyone yelling?!”

Simon’s breath caught, his gaze shifting back to you. “He’s eleven?” His voice dropped to a whisper, his face paling. “This is my son?”