We sat around the old family table. Their father was now dead, and I could be in the house with ease. I spoke slowly, crafting words strong enough to stand on. My daughters, now 16 and 18, reached out for my hands, expressing sadness that such things had happened to me. My older son, age 24, looked quizzical and wondered what it had to do with him. I said that family secrets divide us, that if we can heal the wounds of one generation, they will not burden the next. My younger son, who was 22, rose from the table and hugged me. "My friends tell me that I'm a good hugger; I learned it from you," he said, offering me comfort.