Imagine a small room on the ground floor, dimly lit, closed door, two chairs, it’s chilly. A girl is there, only twelve years old, and an elderly man in a black cassock. 

This is what I was told to do. So I sat in these rooms. I sat very upright and still. I stopped myself from biting my nails. I’m sure I was blushing.

I made my confession. It’s simple: you talk to this man while he looks at you. In the name of the Father and the Son. My last confession was months ago. I am sorry for all my sins. I did this and this and this. Someone hit me, I hit them back — only one slap, but still. I got mad. I stole some cash and a chocolate bar. I lied, yes, I did, I am bad. I’m only human after all — I must also be a sinner.

Earlier that morning, I’d made up a list: I would say this and this and this. It does not matter. How many sins would he expect? More than three. Maybe five or six? I shouldn’t seem too eager.

I told him everything I had prepared and made one up right then and there because I felt inspired. What sins did they expect a twelve-year-old to have committed?

In the Bible, Jesus, at twelve, visited the temple — but the people there actually encouraged this child to ask questions.