when I was at last fully convinced of my newly-born freedom and feared no longer a relapse to my condition of slavery,
I did what I had so often and so ardently desired to do—I confessed.
I went to mother and showed her the little savings box with the broken lock, filled with toy mark pieces instead of with real money,
and I told her how long I had been in the thrall of an evil tormentor, through my own guilt.
She did not understand everything, but she saw the money box, she saw my altered look and heard my changed voice—
she felt that I was healed, that I had been restored to her.
And then with lofty feelings I celebrated my readmission into the family, the prodigal son’s return home.
Mother took me to father, the story was repeated, questions and exclamations of wonder followed in quick succession,
both parents stroked my hair and breathed deeply, as in relief from a long oppression.
It was all lovely, like the stories I had read, all discords were resolved in a happy ending.
I surrendered myself passionately to this harmonious state of affairs.
I could not have enough of the idea that I was again free and trusted by my parents.
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