My mom considers the question. “You know, it’s funny. Talking about passion. Since we lost your dad, I’ve found passion with men, from time to time. But I’'d give it all back for just a few more days with him. For just one more late-night talk. Passion never mattered very much to me. But that type of intimacy that we had? That was what I cherished.” Maybe one day I will tell her what I know. Maybe I never will. Maybe I'll put it in Evelyn’s biography, or perhaps I'll tell Evelyn’s side of it without ever revealing who was sitting in the passenger’s seat of that car. Maybe I'll leave that part out completely. I think I’d be willing to lie about Evelyn’s life to protect my mother. I think I’d be willing to omit the truth from public knowledge in the interest of the happiness and sanity of a person I love dearly. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just know that I will be guided by what I believe to be best for my mother. And if it comes at the expense of honesty, if it takes a small chunk out of my integrity, ’'m OK with that. Perfectly, stunningly OK. “I think I was just very fortunate to find a companion like your father,” my mom says. “To find that kind of soul mate.” When you dig just the tiniest bit beneath the surface, everyone’s love life is original and interesting and nuanced and defies any easy definition. And maybe one day I'll find someone I love the way Evelyn loved Celia. Or maybe I might just find someone I love the way my parents loved each other. Knowing to look for it, knowing there are all different types of great loves out there, is enough for me for now. There’s still much I don’t know about my father. Maybe he was gay. Maybe he saw himself as straight but in love with one man. Maybe he was bisexual. Or a host of other words. But it really doesn’t matter, that’s the thing. He loved me. And he loved my mom. And nothing I could learn about him now changes that. Any of it.