When I was 8, a woman took my brother and I to see A Passage to India. We must not have known her well because only an outsider would think taking the kids for an afternoon could improve my parents’ marriage.
While sitting in the dark between this stranger and my brother, I started crying. I never cried in public; I rarely even cried in front of my family, but at that moment, I couldn’t help myself. My brother started crying, too. I guess from the fear and confusion of seeing me cry. We weren’t wailing or anything, just silently dribbling tears.
She asked me what was wrong, but I had no idea. I still don’t really know. I told her I didn’t like the movie, even though I didn’t think that was it. So, she took us out and called my parents, cutting their afternoon short.