“You think that giving me your story makes up for any of it?” I ask her. “All this time, you’ve been making me sit here, listening to your life, so that you could confess, and you think that your biography makes up for it?” “No,” she says. “I think you know me well enough by now to know I’m not nearly naive enough to believe in absolution.” “What, then?” Evelyn reaches out and shows me the paper in her hand. “I found this in Harry’s pants pocket. The night he died. My guess is that he’d read it and it was the reason he’d been drinking so much to begin with. It was from your father.” “So?” “Sol...I found great peace in my daughter knowing the truth about me. There was immense comfort in knowing the real her. I wanted to... I think I’m the only person alive who can give that to you. Can give it to your dad. I want you to know who he truly was.” “I know who he was to me,” I say, while realizing that that’s not exactly true. “I thought you would want to know all of him. Take it, Monique. Read the letter. If you don’t want it, you don’t have to keep it. But I always planned on sending it to you. I always thought you deserved to know.” I snatch it from her, not wanting even to extend the kindness of taking it gently. I sit down. I open it. There are what can only be bloodstains on the top of the page. I wonder briefly if it’s my father’s blood. Or Harry’s. I decide not to think about it. Before I can read even one line, I look up at her. “Can you leave?” I say. Evelyn nods and walks out of her own office. She shuts the door behind her. I look down. There is so much to reframe in my mind. My father did nothing wrong. My father didn’t cause his own death. I’ve spent years of my life seeing him from that angle, making peace with him through that lens.