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Nova Scotia had its fair share, but lacked its fair share of intellectuals — that slice of society in which my father revelled during his student days at Cambridge.
    But now it sounds ridiculous. People just don’t talk in terms of superiority and genius — it isn’t politically correct. And I resent my mother not being included in our elite group. In my memory, she does not occupy the position of Caterer to the Needs of Genius. Rather, she embodies all that is warm, giving, selfless; a pure creature of the heart while my father is a creature of the head — neither being better than the other. “Do you remember how Mum used to quote the Bible?” I say in an attempt to change the subject. “That psalm she used to say every time I was down in the dumps…it’s on the tip of my tongue…”
    â€œPsalm 80. ‘Turn us again oh God, and cause thy face to shine; and we shall be saved.’”
    â€œThat’s it,” I cry, delighted. “I can almost hear her saying it! She said it made her feel hopeful.”
    My father lays his empty beer mug on the table and continues as though I had not spoken.
    â€œYour mother wrote a manuscript. It is written like a novel, in the third-person — perhaps she nurtured private dreams of publication. I found it after her death, when I was sorting through her things. At first … it upset me terribly. I wouldn’t have dreamt of showing it to anyone. Recently, when I learned of my sickness, I thought I only had two choices: destroy the manuscript or leave it for you to find. Both choices felt uncomfortable. Then I thought, what if Gabriel reads the manuscript while he is here, with me? Instead of becoming a negative legacy, it could become the basis of discussion and mutual understanding. ”
    He waits for my reaction, and I manage a nod.
    â€œIt’s important to me that you read this manuscript. I want to see whether you still maintain that happiness balanced the bad times after you’ve read it. I want to explain my point of view whenever you feel … confused. Then I can die knowing that I have left a legacy that is not wholly negative.”
    He ambles upstairs and returns with a faded, yellow stack of papers. I take it gingerly, reaching out with both hands.
    â€œThis is going to be weird.”
    â€œAn insight from your mother’s perspective. Please talk to me while you read it. Ask me to explain. You must hear my point of view, because I do not have twenty years to finish this ‘booky.’”
    Later that night I lie in bed and hold the manuscript in my hands. My mother wrote this manuscript. It seems incredible. Will she be a horrible writer? Will I feel embarrassed? Will the truth set me free?

The Unexamined Life Is Not Worth Living
    â€”Socrates
    By Madelyn Golden
    She dreamed she was walking down the long rows of patients, pushing the trolley of pills before her. The ward stretched as far as she could see, with beds lining each side and a huge fireplace in the middle. It was hard to read the writing on the list detailing the medication for each person. The patients began to voice their irritation. The noise got louder and louder, and she screamed at them to be quiet, she was coming.
    Anne Smith snapped to consciousness and then froze, her body stiff with anxiety as she anticipated the wake-up call. She peered at the clock on her bedside table: ten to five. Every morning she woke up too early and lay there rigid, dreading the night nurse’s knock, furious with herself for waking up before she had to. She willed her body to relax. It was ridiculous, this tension. Never enough sleep. Exhausted.
    The pounding at the door made her jump, even though she had been expecting it.
    â€œRise and shine nurses! Your shift starts in half an hour!”
    The night nurse passed and Anne relaxed. She would just keep her eyes closed for a few more minutes. Instantly, she was back on the ward,