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He did not want to speak of his parents, but her genuine curiosity made him feel less reluctant.
“My mother was ill for some time,” he said, feeling wistful. “When I was very young, she was vibrant and joyous, yet as the years went on, she grew quieter and more withdrawn. She had less energy, went out less and less. Eventually, one day, I realized that she never came to dinner anymore. She passed away only a short time later.”
“Was it some form of consumption?”
He shook his head. “No, I think she was simply in poor spirits for some time.”
“Poor spirits?”
“Melancholy,” he explained. “She was not ill in body, just in mind.”
She cocked her head, waiting for him to continue, but he struggled to admit to her what he thought, or supposed, for many years, so he stayed silent for a while.
“And your father?” she asked.
“He had apoplexy,” Michael explained. “He ate too much rich food, drank too much. It caught up with him eventually.”
“How many years ago was that?”
“Oh, about five or six years now, I suppose,” he responded. He could tell that she was trying to draw him out by asking questions, but he struggled to respond much more elaborately. He hated talking about his parents and the sadness and anger he felt when he did.
“Do you miss him at all?” she asked tentatively, as though she already knew the answer.
Michael laughed out loud at her question, quite without regard to how his reaction would be received.
“I do not miss him,” he responded, much more softly. “In fact, I rejoiced the day that he finally died.”
He felt the gooseflesh rising on her arm.
“Do not get me wrong,” he said. “I did not wish him ill. But it was a relief to me. You should dislike him too, after all, as he is the reason that I cannot marry you, even if I wanted to.”
