“Tricia,” I ask, “how much do you know about your father’s childhood?” “I don’t know anything really.” She reaches out for a wad of tissues. “I just know . . . Oh, God, I don’t know . . .” “Sure you do, Tricia. Go on,” I urge. “I just . . .” she stammers. “I’m not sure, exactly. The thing is . . . I just know it was bad!” Tricia folds in on herself. For no reason she could begin to articulate, she bends forward and cries. Thomas glances at his daughter, worriedly. He looks at her sideways, afraid to meet her full in the face. “That’s yours, you know,” I tell him. He looks up at me. “That pain
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