Even though I, her eldest, have just turned forty, there is much that a duty to truth can offer me now which the hugs, meals and sympathy she freely gave in my childhood cannot.
I have also been thinking lately that my father may not be the quiet, ignorant cuckold I once took him for.
In any case, my biological father left when I was six, and my mother quit her job shortly thereafter; she then housewived her three children until my father returned for good several years later.
And when, as her book suggests, her boss asked her to make love with him, she also agreed to this, my father was, if not relieved, then unsurprised.
This is not to reduce the power of that experience, however; I remember the peculiar combination of queasiness and curiosity quite well even today.
I imagined all the ancient 45-year old parents I knew could still enjoy a late-night tumble now and then; I could see sex as a release or weekly pleasure for them.