Rowan needed an enemy.

An enemy would have organized his self-pity into a cause, given him a story with a hero in it, someone to rail against for decades.

By recusing himself, by making the whole thing a matter of neutral evidence and indifferent strangers, my father took the drama away entirely — and left Rowan alone in a plain, well-lit room with nothing but the record of what he had actually done.

There is no self-pity that can survive that room for long.