The last day I saw Grandpa Sylvia alive. The weather was cold, gloomy, and matched my mood.

As much as I'd idolized the old man when I was a kid, I hadn't visited him in years.

The mandatory counseling sessions I'd undergone in prison made me question a lot of what

my grandfather had done for me back then. Or all those expensive gifts, open hand to generosity,

or enticement. Had Grandpa Sylvia trusted me with secrets or used them to manipulate me?

Maybe that was why I'd avoided my grandfather for so long. Maybe I was afraid to learn the truth.

As it turned out, on that dreary winter evening I learned the truth that I won't share

until I'm on my own deathbed. If I make it that far, a truth I wish I could forget.

Like most kids, I took people at face value. I didn't look for the shadow behind.

But also like most kids, I had a better and faster understanding of power relationships

than the average adult. And when Grandpa Sylvia walked into a room, it was obvious who had the power.

The adults who I considered mean or unfair because they scolded and corrected me kept the

trap shut if Grandpa Sylvia was around. All their confidence and righteous anger about the

windows I'd broken or the schoolwork I'd cheated on just shriveled up and blew away

when my grandfather stood beside me. The fear in their eyes was sweeter than stolen candy.

I didn't ask how my grandfather somehow always got me out of trouble. Or how he paid for all

those expensive gifts. I only cared about what I had in front of me. And those facts were clear.

Grandpa Sylvia was stylish, rich, and on my side. It was those other adults with their boring

chores, annoying rules, and drab way of living, who were the bad guys. My parents wore supermarket

khakis or two broke for restaurants and made me go to bed at 9 p.m. sharp.

My grandfather, on the other hand, showed me pictures of the town in Sicily where his suits were made.

He gave $100 tips to the Italian restaurants delivery boy and let me stay up late to watch

...