Confession on a deathbed -- spoilers for "The Things We Never Say" by Elizabeth Strout and "Ripeness" by Sarah Moss

It so happened that I read *The Things We Never Say* by Elizabeth Strout and *Ripeness* by Sarah Moss in quick succession, and I wanted to discuss something that struck me. In both novels, there are characters who decide – in one case on their deathbed, in the other case, possibly after their death – to reveal to other people the story of their biological origins. While the situations, the circumstances and the certainty of the revelations differ between the two novels, it made me think – why do people approaching the end of their lives feel it permissible or even necessary to disrupt another person’s life by confessing to them something that they probably didn’t want to know in the first place?

Does the confessor always have the moral right to do so, because it is “the truth”? Or is their ethical standing questionable precisely because the truth is not always welcome?

How should the dilemma of “revealing” vs “concealing” be considered in life?

And, more to the point, how compelling do you think it has been dealt with in these two novels?

My own thoughts on the matter are here.

In the case of *The Things We Never Say*, Reginald chooses to send a letter to his biological son without any consideration for what consequences it may have, which strikes me as particularly selfish, cruel and uncalled for. I can't recall any compunction on his part of the sort like: "I grappled with this idea for some time. I was unsure whether I should tell you, but on the whole I decided that the fullness of knowledge is better than obscurity, and as much as it pains me that it may cause you distress, I choose to inform you of this." Strout also portrays him as arrogant, contemptuous, and envious. With that in mind, I read his actions as having one clear motive – he wants, at the end of his life, to reclaim his son without much concern for what it may cause the young man to feel. Egoistic, to say the least. Consistent characterisation on Strout’s part, but not too much depth on this particular matter. It may be an artistic choice; I don’t argue with that.

With *Ripeness*, the depiction is more subtle. Towards the end of the narrative, Edith says that she hopes her nephew would not read it, accepting that it may be too hurtful and unnecessary. She nevertheless doesn’t decide to destroy the letter. She leaves it on her computer in case Gabriel ever decides to seek information only she has. I can’t help thinking that her decision to compile the Italian account was dictated by the appearance of Henry in Méabh’s life, which also supplied me with the causal connection between the Irish and the Italian strands of the novel, which I initially missed. So, I would say it is a richer exploration – not surprising to find in a book dealing with the themes of origin and belonging. I also see that it is done with Moss’s characteristic restraint and attention to what can be not said.