At least it’s weighing heavy on my mind these last few days. What is? The prospect of explaining the past to someone else in my family. It’s not something that I look forward to doing. As much as it’s very easy for me to write about the things that have happened in my family, it’s very difficult to talk to someone inside the same family, someone who is too young to remember what happened, someone who’s entire view of the family will be changed forever by having this knowledge.
Part of me had hoped it wouldn’t happen. That somehow, I could allow this person to have his “happy family” memories, or illusions as the case may be. There’s certainly no harm in that, right? No, there really isn’t, but at the same time there are questions, there are things that go unexplained, there are gaps that simply demand explanation. I have the facts that will fill in those gaps, and I’m not ashamed to talk about them, to let the truth out to see the light of day. No, I’m not ashamed of it, but I know what a heavy responsiblity it is that I undertake when I choose to speak the truth. I know that telling the truth means that part of this person will be forever changed. I know that passing on the facts, speaking openly and honestly about them, will forever take the innocence of childhood away from them.
Yes, it’s time to fill in the gaps, and give the answers that they need to make sense of things. I’m just not sure he’s going to like what the explanations add up to.