In the middle of an argument, my wife revealed that I might not be the biological father of our 15-year-old son

Evan appeared in the doorway, his controller forgotten. “Mom? Dad? What’s going on?”

“Your father thinks I should be the household trash enforcer on top of everything else I do around here.”

I held up my hands. “That’s not what I said. We agreed as a family—”

“Oh, now you care about family agreements? That’s rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”