Grandma, my mom’s mom, learned that Irene was about to stop going to therapy. Her proud religious belief was like an artistic calling; but unlike her children, her belief didn’t keep her from being practical about life’s problems, so she advised Irene to continue her therapy in secret, that she’d pay for it. Our grandmother was a widow and loved by all her grandchildren, and even though it was hard to get close to her, Irene had managed to. When Irene confessed this, she told me that she’d never told anyone, and she didn’t want me to tell anyone. It was a sacrifice for Grandma—she had a lot of grandchildren and bought a lot of gifts. Through therapy, Irene realized she wanted to get away from the family for college. She was a tomboy at the time, and had never brought a boyfriend home, just some languid, continuously depressed girlfriends who offered soppy advice and a shoulder to listlessly cry on. Luca and I were into politics, were ferocious readers, and listened to alternative music, but we’d only just begun to dabble in counterculture, so we mistook the signifiers of lesbianism for sloppiness: short hair, stooped shoulders, chin raised in greeting, rejecting everything that could be called “lovely,” because it gives off a meaning: a girl’s surrender to the male world … Years later, looking back at family photos, the indications were so clear, I felt like a complete idiot.