AFTER THE MASS, EVERYONE goes downstairs to the church basement for a reception. The Ladies of Charity have done their usual good work and all is in readiness for us. Helen and I spend most of our time with the family, but as others come up to hug them, I slip away to the corner where Nate stands apart from the others, a lone figure still grieving amidst the cacophony of talk and even occasional laughter.
“Nate,” I say, putting my arm around him, “it took a lot of courage for you to be here today, son. I’m proud of you.”
“I didn’t want to come, Father,” he says quietly. “I felt like I had to. To tell her I’m sorry I let her down, like so many other people have. To tell her I’m sorry my first thought was to use her for my own purposes. To tell her I wish I could have done more.”
“Nate,”
