So it was like the old scenario that so often throws a shadow over the last days of people with cancer: we knew—she knew—we knew she knew—she knew we knew—and none of us would talk about it when we were all together. We kept up the charade to the end. Aunt Rose was deprived and so were we of the coming together that should have been, when we might finally tell her what her life had given us. In this sense, my Aunt Rose died alone.
