Several weeks later, Anna told her children the truth.
She had spent days worrying about the conversation. She was afraid they would blame her for keeping secrets. She was afraid they would question the memories of their father. She was afraid that the revelation would destroy whatever peace they had made with the past.
We talked about it for several evenings.
I never told her what she should do.
Eventually, she decided she wanted them to know, but she wanted to speak to them herself.
She invited them to our house on a Sunday afternoon.
Her daughter, Susan, arrived first, followed by her son, Michael.
They were both in their forties, with families of their own. They had grown up believing that their parents’ marriage had been imperfect but ordinary.
After lunch, Anna asked them to sit in the living room.
I stayed beside her, holding her hand.
She spoke slowly at first.
