I simply, for once, refused to help them hide.

And it turned out that people who have relied their whole lives on not being seen cannot survive being seen.

It undid them more thoroughly than any argument could have.

There was a moment, just before they turned to go, when my mother looked at me, and I have thought about that look many times since.

It was not remorse.

I want to be honest about that, because it would make a neater story if I could tell you that in that final moment my mother’s face showed some flicker of understanding, some dawning recognition of what she had done.