Michelle Kane

She refused any visitors at the institution, and my father was grateful for the excuse to forget her entirely.

I only learned the truth when I was 17 and about to leave for college, and my father felt like I should know.

He was so ashamed he couldn't look me in the eyes when he said what she did.

Like his credentials as a father were tarnished by his having chosen her as a wife, which of course they were.

When I was 24 years old, flush with confidence about myself and my place in the world, I went to see my mother.

She wasn't really all there by then, which is maybe why she agreed to see me.

I was led into a common room, sunny and quiet, and my mother sat under a lap blanket in a straight-back chair, looking out the window.

She was old, withered, her skin nearly translucent.

I sat next to her and told her who I was, but she didn't acknowledge my presence or anything I said.

She just studied the clouds gliding over the treetops.

I told her about my life, my degree, my career.

Even though she didn't respond, it felt good to tell her these things, the way someone with a normal mother might do on a sunny afternoon.

I felt good, pretending there was some connection.

and we sat in silence for a long time.

And then, for reasons I will never know, I asked her why she did it.

She turned for the first time and smiled, looked into my eyes and reached over to pat my hand.

You'll see, she said.

I was raised a Christian, and I believe in good and evil.

I believe people are responsible for their choices, and those who make choices that harm others are evil.

There is no more relativism that can justify the murder and consumption of other humans, and so I have long accepted the fact that my own mother was evil.