“But she and that filth made me do it!” Steve said, staring at Ben.
“How people ogled at her; she was something! I loved her. But Renée hadn’t wanted me that way for a long time, Ben! She was out every evening while I…counted on wine. And there were her lies! As if I didn’t know she wasn’t just friends with that bastard!” Steve clutched the glass. Ben stared back.
“I thought that's what you were, a bastard. You weren’t… mine. I was patient, Ben - I waited; I took the tests on you--results took too long…” Steve took a swig. “That night, I saw her with him, again! I was enraged. I had a glass too many…”
“There you were, sleeping. I don’t know why, I thought this would be Renée’s lesson….” Steve whispered. “Blood is much like wine.... everyday I dirty my hands in it, Ben. Yet, my hands trembled. And… in a moment, you lay still, silenced!”
“Then they blamed her…took Renée away. I was careful even in that drunk state. It’s natural to us doctors…” He sobbed “…and now I got those results in my hands…it says you were…My son…not his! Maybe so was your mother…my wife…. too late…” Steve closed his eyes.
“But you were brave, son. You didn’t cry… just a little. So brave…” Steve mumbled, and put down the silver photo frame back on the mantelpiece as the glass slipped from his grip, and on the cream rug, staining it red.