The first time my brothers and I squeezed into the crawlspace behind the confessional after Sunday service and listened to Mr. Foster admit to blowing his late wife’s life insurance on hookers and cocaine was the first time my brain stopped hurting. Because suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad about drowning Angelo’s best friend in the pool that summer or setting the outhouse on fire to see how quickly the flames would spread. I’d realized listening to the sins of others had a way of silencing my own.
