To my dad, pity was love, which is why he loved it when people pitied… it meant they cared and also forgot to ask him if it was reciprocal. Yet, I found the quality annoying on him. As we walked through the Basilica, he proceeded to talk about these mysterious, suicide attempts without mentioning who, what, where, and why. They were just his whale calls for pity, and I did not bite. Instead, I had a much darker thought, ¨Well, you did not succeed?¨

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