[her mouth is dry. She notices it now, talking about it, or, maybe it's just nerves, but she reaches over to pick up the wine glass with her free hand, sipping just a little before continuing]

I was eight when my mother walked in on us. I guess that would make him 16.

[a pause. There's a little bitterness in the next part, but it's small, mostly masked by resignation that's come with years of learning to cope] She walked back out again until he was finished. Then she took me to confession.