He had carried this secret for twenty-four years, had been begged to carry it to his grave — and in his final hour, knowing the danger had passed, knowing I was about to lose the only parent I had left, he had given me the other one back.

It was not a confession.

It was a gift, disguised as one, because he did not know how else to hand it to me.

I have thought about the courage it took to give it that way.

Because Clement had a gentler option, and he knew it.

He could have simply told me: your mother is alive, and she loves you, and you can go to her when I am gone. He could have delivered the good news clean, kept himself the hero of the story, died with my love uncomplicated.