“It’s the least I deserve,” I tell her, defensive. “It’s the fucking least you can give me.” “Nobody deserves anything,” Evelyn says. “It’s simply a matter of who’s willing to go and take it for themselves. And you, Monique, are a person who has proven to be willing to go out there and take what you want. So be honest about that. No one is just a victim or a victor. Everyone is somewhere in between. People who go around casting themselves as one or the other are not only kidding themselves, but they’re also painfully unoriginal.” I get up from the table and walk to the sink. I wash my hands, because I hate how clammy they feel. I dry them. I look at her. “I hate you, you know.” Evelyn nods. “Good for you. It’s such an uncomplicated feeling, isn’t it? Hatred?” “Yes,” I say. “It is.” “Everything else in life is more complex. Especially your father. That’s why I thought it was so important that you read that letter. I wanted you to know.” “What, exactly? That he was innocent? Or that he loved a man?” “That he loved you. Like that. He was willing to turn down romantic love in order to stand by your side. Do you know what an amazing father you had? Do you know how loved you were? Plenty of men say they’ll never leave their families, but your father was put to the test and didn’t even blink. I wanted you to know that. If I had a father like that, I would have wanted to know.” No one is all good or all bad. I know this, of course. I had to learn it at a young age. But sometimes it’s easy to forget just how true it is. That it applies to everyone. Until you’re sitting in front of the woman who put your father’s dead body in the driver’s seat of a car to save the reputation of her best friend —and you realize she held on to a letter for almost three decades because she wanted you to know how much you were loved. She could have given me the letter earlier. She also could have thrown it away. There’s Evelyn Hugo for you. Somewhere in the middle.