written By
There had been a chill in the house for days, I don’t remember why. Some
disappointment, I suppose, some bitter unhappiness. We were small kids. Her
silence was our suffering. I remember the Saturday afternoon. I saw her come
out of the house into the brilliant sun, dressed up. I felt proud of her when
she dressed up. She had a kind of look about her that I admired. Still, she did
not speak, to Dad or to us, her children. She got into the car and drove off. She
came back a different person, a different wife, a different mother. She spoke,
she smiled –– it was unfair of course –– her expectation of our gratitude, our
compliance. We were compliant with great relief. We were kids. Nothing was
spoken. We went back to our small lives, and were grateful. Dad did not
comment … it was about confession. She had gone off to Saturday afternoon
confession. She had knelt in the wooden box and told the priest her troubles,
confessed her sins against her family. That meant she did not have to
apologise or explain. She was forgiven. And now we were all to be released,
expected to be thankful. That’s what a Saturday afternoon confession did for a
distressed family, made it possible for us to face each other again across an
evening meal.
