 For as long as you can remember, you've always had your studies and your chores to do. Mother always insisted that you learn responsibility, but you always felt closer to Betsy, the enslaved black woman who changed your diapers and cooked your food and picked you up when you fell and skinned your knees. You never remember running down to the barn to play without Betsy's two boys and Imogen, the girl between them, the one that was born just three months after you. For you, a son of so-called privilege, puberty means beginning to make sense of why you kissed Imogen down in the hay pile when you were six