When a writer is born into a family, Czesław Miłosz once famously said, the family is finished. You could forget about having any more secrets. You could forget about hiding what you didn’t want others to know. You were going to be exposed, hung out to air, and by a traitor from within. But later I wondered, Is it the family that’s really finished or simply the writer’s place within it? Could a family still be a family with parts missing?

Judith Freeman