I find myself wanting to impress you in a way I never thought about doing before, but being with you has undermined my self-confidence. I question my motives now, about everything I do.

I suppose that’s how mum felt. As for I felt,

She was two people to me, and I never had any way of knowing which she would be.

I wondered if I had ever done anything to justify my mother’s fear. There were no such memories, but how could I be sure there weren’t horrible thoughts repressed behind the barriers of my tortured conscience? In the sealed-off passageways, beyond blind alleys, that I would never see. Possibly I will never know. Whatever the truth is, I must not hate [her] for protecting [herself]. I must understand the way she saw it. Unless I forgive her, I will have nothing.