Anthony knew the drill.

He knew that Mommy had to have the shades drawn in the car. He also knew that Mommy tended to shriek when sunlight hit her directly, so as I faced him in the front seat, as I pulled my knees up and kept my arms out of any direct sunlight, he didn't think much of it. Mommy, after all, was sick.

Or so he thought.

It's time, I thought. Time to tell him the truth.

Easier said than done. At least eight different times I opened my mouth to speak, and at least eight different times nothing came out. While I sat there opening and closing my mouth, Anthony played his Gameboy. There was still chocolate on his nose.

I pushed through the nerves and fear and got my mouth working. "Anthony, baby, I need to talk to you about something important - and, no, it's not about Tammy's B.O."

He giggled a little, then looked over at me, suddenly serious. "I'm sorry about those boys, Mommy."

"I know you are, honey. Put the Gameboy down. I want to talk to you about something serious, something related to what happened today."

"Related?" he asked, scrunching up his little face.

"It means 'connected.'"

"Like how relatives are connected."

"Yes, that's right. You see, Mommy is..." Except I couldn't finish the sentence. I paused and thought long and hard about the wisdom of continuing it. I paused so long that Anthony looked up at me, squinting with just one eye the way he does sometimes.

He needs to know. He has to know. It's only fair. He can't grow up not knowing. But he's so young. So young...

"Are you okay, Mommy? Is the sun hurting you bad?"

"I'm okay, baby." I took in some air to calm myself, then plunged forward. "Anthony, I'm not like other mommies."

He nodded. "I know. Because you can't go in the sun."

"That's part of it, honey. You see, I'm different in other ways, too. I'm stronger than other mommies."

"Stronger?"

I raised my arm and flexed my bicep, although I don't think much of anything flexed. "Yes, stronger. In fact, I'm stronger than most men, too."

"You mean strong like me," he said.

"Yes."

"Well, duh, Mom. I'm only your kid. Kids have the same stuff their mommies have. But only half of the daddy's."

Now I was confused. "Only half of their daddy's?"

"Duh, Mom. Kids come from their mommies, not their daddies."

"I see," I said. "Very logical."

Anthony nodded as if he'd spoken the truth. Then he turned to me, squinting with one eye again. "Is Tammy strong, too?"

"No. She's not like us."

"Why not?"

I shifted in my seat. I wanted to look away. I wanted to avoid his innocent stare. How do you look a little boy in the eye and tell him what I was about to tell him? I didn't know. I didn't know anything. He had to know. He had to. I believed that with all my heart and soul. My dead heart and damned soul.

I said, "Do you remember when you were sick last year?"

My son nodded absently. Mercifully, he looked away and was now playing with the zipper to his jacket.

"Well, last year you were very, very sick, so sick that Mommy had to make you stronger."

"Why?"

"So that you could fight the sickness."

"Oh, cool." He stopped playing with the zipper. He stared at it for a few seconds, then his little face scrunched up the way it does just before he asks a question. "But how did you make me stronger?"

The question I knew he would inevitably ask. Baby steps, I reminded myself. He needed only to be made aware that he was different...and why he was different. Baby steps for now. More later, when he's older.

"I gave you a part of me."

"What part?"

Looking into those round eyes, those red lips, those chubby cheeks...cheeks that were rapidly turning sharper and sharper...I just couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him that he fed from my wrist.

Not yet, I thought. Someday. Perhaps someday soon. Not now. Baby steps.

Instead, I tapped my heart. "I gave you love, baby. All the love I had in the world."

"And it made me stronger?"

"It made you strong like me."

"Wow."

"But this is our secret, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because we're a little different than other people."

"Can I still go in the sun?"

"Yes," I said.

"But how are we different?"

"Well, we are stronger than most people."

"Oh, cool."

"But it's our secret, okay? The way Superman keeps his identity secret."

"And Batman and Spider-Man!"

"Yes, exactly."

"Oh, my gosh! Are we like...superheroes?"

I thought about that. I thought of my son taking care of the school bullies. I thought of myself taking care of Johnny and his gang.

I nodded. "Yeah, a little bit."

"Oh, cool!" He paused and cocked his head a little. "But will I ever be normal again?"

His question hit me by surprise. Maybe I was dreading hearing it. Maybe I had hoped he would never ask it. I looked at him, then looked away. I rubbed my hands together, then ran my fingers through my hair. My son, I knew, would never be normal again. Ever. I was suddenly overwhelmed with what I had done to him.

"Why are you crying, Mommy?"

"I'm sorry, baby."

"Sorry for what?"

So innocent. So sweet. He didn't deserve this. Shit. I started rocking in my seat as my son watched me with wide, concerned eyes. He started patting me on the arm the way he does when he's nervous.

"I'm sorry, Mommy. I'm sorry I made you cry. I didn't mean to."

I covered my face and did my best to hide my tears, the deep pain that seemed to want to burst from my chest. I held it in. Or tried to.

"I'm so sorry, baby."

"It's okay, Mommy."

And he kept telling me it would be okay, over and over, as I rocked in my seat, weeping into my hands.