Despite my father’s protests, Bertha insisted on feeding him herself, spooning the broth into his mouth just as he was opening it to berate her for her stubbornness.

I stole a piece of bread from his tray and bit into it. It was crunchy and fragrant, still warm from the oven. Nobody cooked like Bertha.

I waited until my father had eaten his broth and drank a quarter of the whiskey bottle before I confronted him.

“So John Pete is your brother, eh?”

He nearly spit out the whiskey he had just swallowed. Bertha quickly ducked out of the room with the tray.

“Who told you? Bertha? Bertha! You come back in here, woman!”

“I have to finish cooking supper for the crew, master! Be back in a jiffy!” She called out from the hall.

My father groaned. “I should have known. That woman has the biggest mouth I ever seen.”

“Bertha or no Bertha, the fact remains that you kept this from me. Does he know that I’m his nephew?”

“I suspect he figured that out today, if he didn’t know already.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, dad?”