Robert seldom mentioned his childhood, but on one rare occasion—the only time he ever visited me alone in New York, he was en route to London to meet a client—he stated matter-of-factly, “My father did everything possible to destroy my self- confidence.”
It was the only personal conversation that we ever had.
We were sitting in Mme. Romaine de Lyon’s restaurant and eating asparagus omelettes by a window with white lace curtains.
Was he aware that he and my mother flawlessly performed the same act upon me?
He also described a recurring dream that he had: He and my mother were standing in the yard of his childhood home in Cotton Fields, Arkansas.
“We’ve killed someone,” he calmly stated to my mother.
I guess he felt guilty about his treatment of me, or rather his infinite indifference. It was his way to apologize, the best that he could do, under his steely emotional armor.
My homosexual father made the decision—from the beginning—to sacrifice me, in order to save himself.