She looks at some invisible point to the left of my shoulder. “He’s like a wound that won’t stop bleeding. Now that it’s all come out he won’t shut up. All those years he never said a thing, and now he has to tell us. Selfish bastard.” Her voice cracks and she sniffs and swallows, an awful sucking sound. “Why the hell don’t people understand there are some things you don’t talk about? You keep it to yourself so you hurt fewer people. You’re supposed to pay with guilt. Guilt is penance,” she says.
