There is a latent anger in a lot of people that went to boarding

Host: The library was silent — the kind of silence that breathes, echoes, and remembers. Dust floated in the light, golden motes turning slowly in the air, like memories too stubborn to settle. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, their branches scraping the old glass windows in a rhythm that felt like the tapping of ghosts.

Jack stood by the window, a whiskey glass in his hand, his reflection split across the pane — half man, half boy, both uncomfortable in the same body.

At the table, Jeeny sat, her eyes following him with quiet understanding. She had seen that look before — the kind that only appears when a man confronts the child he used to be.

Jeeny: “You’ve been pacing for ten minutes. What are you really chasing?”

Jack: “Ghosts. Well-dressed ones. With polished shoes and Latin mottos.”

Jeeny: “Ah. The boarding school kind.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Host: He took a sip, grimaced, the liquid burning like a confession.

Jack: “Damian Lewis once said, ‘There is a latent anger in a lot of people that went to boarding school at an early age. I was eight. And I loved it over the five years, but I think the adjustments for eight-year-olds are a lot. And I think it informs who you are for a long, long time.’”

Jeeny: “That sounds familiar.”

Jack: “Because it’s true. I was nine. And I hated it. But also… I didn’t. I learned how to disappear politely.”

Jeeny: “Disappear politely?”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s what they train you for — emotional discipline. You learn to cry in Latin.”

Host: A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting flickering light across the bookshelves, revealing titles about virtue, honor, duty — the curriculum of repression.

Jeeny: “People think those schools build leaders. But maybe they just build armor.”

Jack: “Exactly. They teach you to shake hands before you learn to be held.”

Jeeny: “And to lead before you ever learned to be loved.”

Jack: “I used to think I was lucky. The buildings were beautiful, the traditions noble. But it’s strange how loneliness can wear a uniform and still look respectable.”

Jeeny: “And that loneliness grows up with you.”

Jack: “No, it grows into you.”

Host: The rain had started outside, soft, consistent, soothing, but it only made the room feel smaller. The firelight danced across Jack’s face, revealing shadows that were older than he was.

Jeeny: “What’s the anger about, Jack?”

Jack: “It’s not anger. It’s… residue. The kind that seeps into everything. You see, they tell you it’s character-building — being sent away that young — but what they never mention is that it’s abandonment disguised as privilege.”

Jeeny: “You were too young to name the loss.”

Jack: “Exactly. So you call it discipline. Achievement. Independence. But really, it’s just the art of pretending you’re not scared.”

Jeeny: “And that pretense becomes habit.”

Jack: “And that habit becomes identity.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the windows, making the glass rattle like a distant cry. Jeeny’s voice lowered, gentle, careful, as though she were speaking to the child still hiding behind his eyes.

Jeeny: “What would you say to him — the boy who packed his trunk and waved goodbye at nine?”

Jack: after a pause “I’d tell him… it’s okay to miss your mother.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “That being brave doesn’t mean not crying. It means crying and still showing up.”

Jeeny: “You’ve carried him a long way.”

Jack: “He still wakes up sometimes — in dreams. Same cold dormitory air, same smell of polish and fear. I wake up sweating, and for a second, I expect to hear the headmaster’s bell.”

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How childhood never ends — it just changes rooms.”

Host: The fire popped, a small spark flying out, dying quickly on the stone hearth. Outside, a dog barked once, then stopped. The world seemed paused, waiting for Jack to exhale.

Jack: “You know what the worst part is? I did love it, like he did. The games, the friendships, the sense of belonging to something bigger. But every bit of love was laced with the price of self-denial. We were taught to win, but never to need.”

Jeeny: “And that kind of love always costs more later.”

Jack: “You spend your adult life trying to remember how to ask for help — without sounding weak.”

Jeeny: “Or how to be touched without flinching.”

Jack: “Or how to be happy without guilt.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, steady and relentless, washing the windowpanes clean. The room was now drenched in amber and shadow, the past and present colliding in the flame’s reflection.

Jeeny: “Do you think you ever stopped being that boy?”

Jack: “No. I just learned to dress him better.”

Jeeny: “And hide him deeper.”

Jack: “It’s funny — the world sees confidence, competence. But underneath, it’s just a child who learned that love had visiting hours.”

Jeeny: “That’s heartbreakingly poetic, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s just true.”

Host: The clock on the mantle ticked softly — a sound too gentle for the weight it carried. Jeeny rose, walked slowly toward the window, and stood beside him. The rainlight played across their faces, merging reflection with reality.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Damian meant? That even when we love something — even when we thrive in it — the cost can still echo through a lifetime. The adjustment never really ends.”

Jack: “It just matures.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It becomes charm, drive, control — the acceptable faces of old grief.”

Jack: “Until something cracks the surface.”

Jeeny: “And then the boy speaks.”

Jack: “And the man doesn’t know what language he’s speaking.”

Host: The fire burned low, casting softer light now — not gold, but copper, like the color of memory fading into forgiveness.

Jeeny: “Do you still resent it?”

Jack: “No. I just wish someone had told me that loving it and being hurt by it weren’t contradictions.”

Jeeny: “They’re not. They’re human.”

Jack: “You know, when I look back, I think it did shape me — made me strong, articulate, independent. But also distant. Careful. Polite to the point of invisibility.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of resilience — it often hides the wound.”

Jack: “And the world applauds the hiding.”

Jeeny: “But healing only begins when you stop performing strength.”

Host: The rain eased, slowing to a mist, whispering against the glass like the softest kind of goodbye. Jack set his glass down, the ice melted, the liquid clear, quiet.

Jack: “You know something strange? I think I finally understand what that anger really is — it’s love that was never allowed to show itself. The kind that curdles when left unspoken.”

Jeeny: “And now that you’ve named it?”

Jack: “It feels less like anger. More like forgiveness looking for a voice.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re already healing.”

Host: She smiled, her eyes reflecting the firelight, the rainlight, and him — the boy, the man, the whole.

Jeeny: “He was eight. You were nine. And both of you did the best you could.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe it’s time to let them both come home.”

Host: The fire dimmed, the library quieted, the rain stopped completely. Outside, a moon broke through the clouds, silvering the wet leaves, brightening the dark just enough.

Jack and Jeeny stood together at the window, their reflections merged, two silhouettes — the child healed, the adult found.

And in the soft, forgiving stillness of the moment, the words of Damian Lewis echoed —
“There is a latent anger in a lot of people that went to boarding school at an early age… and I think it informs who you are for a long, long time.”

Host:
But tonight, perhaps, that anger had finally turned into understanding —
and the boy within the man had at last been seen, not scolded.