I had intended to arrange for a “Month’s Mind” Mass for Nora. Back in Ireland, relatives arranged for a Mass to be said for a loved one who had been dead a month. I stood up, preparing to go and find one of the priests, when a noise startled me. A priest in a black cassock was entering the confessional. The tall, wooden door shut with a click and an inner window slid open. I watched a handful of people go one by one into the confessional, then exit making the sign of the cross. I remembered the first Sunday I had come to Mass and panicked at the thought of taking communion. I knew I needed to confess my sin and seek forgiveness. As the waiting line dwindled to nothing, I steeled myself and rose from the pew.

The door on the priest’s side of the confessional opened just as I was entering the other door, and the priest stepped out. For a split second we locked eyes, then panic rose inside me and I turned to hurry away. He touched my arm gently to restrain me.

“Forgive me, miss,” he said. “I thought the last of the penitents had gone. Please,” he gestured toward the confessional, “please step in.”

I was trembling as I lowered myself on to the hard, splintered kneeler. After some rustling, the window separating us slid back to reveal his shadow outlined behind a latticed, wooden rectangle. He could no longer see me, nor I him. But he has seen me, I thought. He’s not supposed to have seen me. He’s not supposed to know who I am. Reason told me it didn’t matter—I was a stranger to him. But the thought did little to ease my panic.

He made the sign of the cross: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” The familiar ritual calmed me a little, but still I couldn’t force any words out of me.

“Have you come to make your confession, my child?” he said gently. For a minute, something inexplicable made me smile. After all, by the look of him, he was no older than I was. I chased the errant thought away.

“Yes,” I murmured. Then the ritual words I had recited since childhood took over. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been several months since my last confession.”

I waited for his response, but there was none. I had a sudden memory of my childhood confessions, when I could not remember any specific transgressions, so I would make up sins just to satisfy the priest. They were always the same: I disobeyed my parents, I was uncharitable, I was lazy. I kept them vague on purpose, so the priest wouldn’t give out to me or pronounce a heavy penance. But I was no longer a child, and I totally understood the sin I had committed.