For a while, I wanted to be angry that she chose herself over her children, but the older I get, the more sympathy I have with, with a fear of abnegation, if that makes sense? I can wish all I want that she might’ve stayed a few more years, but what would they have cost her? Perhaps nothing; perhaps something; perhaps everything. It’s the not knowing that makes me angry now, the feeling that it’s too late to ask, or that she might not tell me if I did. I want to be able to judge for myself, to see the truth of things, but I can’t—” He made a frustrated noise, fingers flexing as if in physical
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