Willem had tried to approach the subject through various directions—through stories of friends and acquaintances, some named, some not (he had to assume some of these people were creations, as surely no one person could have such a vast collection of sexually abused friends).

The previous Friday, Andy had come over, and they'd told him, and Andy had stood and hugged them both very solemnly, as if he was Jude's father and they had told him that they had just gotten engaged.

I was aware that I had been looking for him on every street, in every crowd.

He will be someone who is defined, first and always, by what he is missing.

He placed his hand on Willem's arm. 'Willem, don't cry.'

'I'm not going to,' he said. 'I can do other things in life besides cry, you know,' although he was no longer sure that was even true.

But they're your parents," Malcolm said to him once a year or so. "You can't just stop talking to them." But you could, and you did: he was proof of that. It was like any relationship, he felt—it took constant pruning, and dedication, and vigilance, and if neither party wanted to make the effort, why wouldn't it wither?