I know, Dad, I was there. I was there the whole time. In fact, that’s something I was hoping we could talk about. You remember how it was, Dad. I was the one taking care of everything. You were so worried about Mom, she was so worried about you. I understand how hard it was for both of you.

I remember how hard it was for her.

I was hoping we could talk about this, Dad. I was going through so much myself then—nobody really knew. You and Mom were there for each other, and I was there for both of you. But no one was there for me. It was like my own needs had to be pushed aside, and we’ve never really dealt with that part of it. My therapist says it’s why I’m having so many problems.

(Inaudible.)

I know, Dad. But what I’m saying is that it was hard for me, too, and it’s still hard for me, and I need for that to be acknowledged. All this time, and it’s still going on, still impacting my life every day. My therapist says it has to be dealt with.

I thought the service went well. What did you think of the service?

When I arrived back at my host’s apartment, I found her at the kitchen table with a mug of tea.

I saw you, she said—stumping me.

At the lecture, she said. I saw you there.

Oh, I said. I didn’t see you.

You were in the back, she said, but I was way up front. I was with a friend of mine, and she always likes to sit close. I saw you when we were leaving. Did you stop somewhere to get something to eat?

Yes, I lied, feeling ridiculous. Was it because I was ashamed to say that I’d stopped for a drink? In fact, I had not been able to eat at all since leaving the hospital that day, because of what I had seen—and smelled—there.

She offered to make me some tea, which I declined.