In fact, the truth needed patience, privacy, and an acceptance that some strangers would never be satisfied.

That Friday evening, when he would ordinarily have packed an overnight bag and invented a movie plan, he stayed home.

We made spaghetti together.

He grated cheese while I cut tomatoes, and for a while neither of us mentioned the bridge.

Then he said, “Do you think they still hate us?”

“Some people might be angry.

That isn’t the same as knowing who you are.”

He nodded and returned to the cheese.