The Room My Father Built
Seven months.
Two hundred-odd evenings.
He would sit in that study after dinner with the door open, and I would go past and say goodnight, and he would say goodnight.
And what I could not survive was the arithmetic: how did I not know.
What I have arrived at, and it took two years, is that the question is wrong.
It assumes that a person doing something monstrous emits a signal.
That there is a way of looking at a man across a dinner table and detecting it.