At the end, in my mother’s final moments, I was not with her, although the rest of my family was. I arrived at my mother’s bedside one hour after she died. In that moment, I also did not realize that she was dead: I thought she was sleeping. When my brother said, “Go say goodbye to your mother,” I was confused even further. After touching her, I felt the cold, reflexive shock and heard my internal dialogue: “My mother is gone.” I remember my father saying, “She held on as long as she could. Your mother kept looking around the room for you. She knew you were missing.” Concetta Greco Loscalzo died searching for another lost child. Until her last breath, my mother was reassured she would recover, all pain-wracked, dwindling seventy-five pounds of her. Yet we knew she was dying. We all knew that concentration camp look. We, the “courageous” men in her life, believed she was not able to handle the truth. But we were the ones too afraid to handle it. How could I have not remembered that secrecy is fertile ground for evil?