Here’s a composite memory: I am five, eight, twelve, sixteen years old. I’ve sassed my mother, or lied to my father. I’ve ruined a new dress, stayed out too late, misbehaved in church, or ignored my chores. I’ve failed in some way, trivial or terrible, and I’ve been caught. But the most painful part of the memory is not the discovery. It’s what happens after I’m caught, after I apologize, after I’m punished and sent to my room. The darkest part is the shame....

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