Now her eyes changed, taking measure of him. It was an odd thing, had never happened before between them. He was less now to her and gratified for it. She said, “Why, you’re angry at her.”

“Of course I am.”

“And you’re doing the same thing you just accused her of.”

“You’re angry at her too. You’ve reason.”

“No. I’m sad. Terribly sad. Sad so hard my chest hurts, I wake up with it aching. Sad for her being gone and sad she took herself like that. And I can’t tell you where the one lets off and the other begins. And yes I am angry. Not like you though, not at her. I’m angry at whatever it was took her there, led her there, drove her there. Whatever it was left her no choice. I’m not so stupid to think she didn’t consider all of us. Which leaves me, what? Leaves me thinking whatever it was, was a horrible hard thing you know far more about than you’ll let on. So I’m angry at you too. Angry that you won’t tell me about it. Angry that you didn’t do something, anything. Something more than what you did. You were the one with all of us sitting watching her those last months; you were the one might’ve changed things, done something. So. Yes. You’re right. I am angry. But angry at you. My own father, such a coward.”

“Don’t you talk that way to me.”

“Oh I guess I will. Talk anyway I want if there’s truth to it.” And stood there, her head high, chin aimed at him, arms across her chest. Collected, abrupt, launched. “Look at you.” she said, “all wrapped up in your own grief. Or sorrow, regret, remorse. Whatever it is. Like you’re the only one with all that. Oh,” she said, “you make me ashamed of you.”

He sat still. His hands in his lap. A bolt in his chest. He did not take his eyes from her. He said, “Is that all?”

She looked at him, her eyes cornered. “That’s it.”

“You’re done?”

“Yes sir. I said what needed to be said.” Crying now, silent, tears tracking her face. There, he thought, you made her cry. Still believing it had to be done.

“Sit,” he said.

She looked at him but did not move.

“Sit,” he repeated. “I’ll tell you what I know. But it’s not going to be one long clean straight line that starts here and ends there. Even if I knew all of it, it wouldn’t be that way. And there’s more gaps than you might think in what I know. But you want it, I’ll give it to you. After all, you’re right; it’s yours as much or more than mine. If I’d meant to spare you and made that choice wrong I’m sorry. You’ll forgive me. Or not. So sit. I won’t talk to you looming.”