I was determined to break down his defences, to make him say something it might hear, give some sign that it would understand.
“Donald, do you think it’s a good thing, a kind thing, never to talk about her?”
“Kind? Kind to whom?”
“To yourself, first of all.”
“You can leave me out of it.”
“To me, then.”
“What’s it got to do with you?” His voice was as hard and cutting as he could make it.
“Everything,” I said. “You forget, I loved her.”
He was silent. He did at least respect my love for her.
“But that wasn’t what she wanted.”