I looked into the eyes of my wife’s twelve-year-old son and said, “Get out of my house.”

I remember every detail of that afternoon, even now, ten years later.

I remember the way the rain tapped against the window of our old front room in Akron, Ohio.

I remember the heavy smell of stale coffee and dust.

And I remember the look on that boy’s face when I threw his bag to the floor.

His name was Ethan Brooks.

He was twelve years old.

And he was not my blood.

My wife Diane had raised him alone before she ever met me.

She had been a strong, quiet woman from a small town outside of Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

When I first met Diane, I was twenty-six years old and thought I knew what love meant.

She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with makeup or expensive clothes.

She carried herself with a gentle dignity that made people want to be better.

And she had a son who followed her like a shadow.

That boy Ethan had his mother’s dark eyes and a seriousness far beyond his years.

I told myself I could love them both.

I promised myself I would be a husband to Diane and a father to her son.

But promises made without a true heart are only words.

And my heart was never truly in it.

I married Diane in a small church near her parents