"So you have some kind of way to set time limits?"
"No, that's not what I meant," he said. "Just that, well, it happened when you were just a kid."
"Time isn't the healer," I said, angry and ready to walk away from him. He kept trying to say that he didn't really mean those words.
"You're digging a deeper hole each time you open your mouth to explain," I said, "and I'm angry. It must be nice to be someone like you without hang-ups or problems that began in childhood and still continue to trouble!"
The shock on his face told me I had touched something in him.
"I apologize," he said and told me his story of growing up with two bright, ambitious parents who seemed to treat him more as a trophy than their child.
I don't know if he ever understood my pain or if I fully understood his. But his last words to me were, "I know only two kinds of people who had perfect childhoods. Liars and people who can't remember."
I'm not a liar and I remember the pain.
I also know I'm healing at my own pace.