“Because once you begin hiding a part of yourself, Hannah, every year that passes makes it harder to bring it back into the light, not easier.

The hiding becomes its own thing.

It grows roots.

After the first year, it’s a secret.

After ten, it’s who you are.

After forty—” she spread her scarred, wrinkled hands “—after forty, you have hidden it so long that showing it would mean admitting you spent your whole life afraid of the wrong thing.

And that is a hard thing to admit, at seventy-six, about a marriage that’s already over.” She turned from the window and looked at me.

“You’re the first person, Hannah.