She was awake, reading an old mystery novel.
“You’re angry,” she said without looking up.
“Yes.”
“Good. Anger is more energetic than sulking.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You have been professionally sulking since adolescence.”
I sat beside the bed.
Mother placed the book down.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked toward the window.
“Because I was afraid.”
I almost smiled.
My mother rarely admitted fear.
“Of what?”
“You.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
She turned back.
“You worshipped your father.”
“I respected him.”
“You worshipped him.”
Her voice was gentle now.
“He wasn’t perfect, Bennett.”
“I know that.”
“No. You know intellectually that no person is perfect. That isn’t the same as allowing your father to have been flawed.”
I leaned back.
Mother continued.
“He told me about Miriam before we married.”
