H ERE IS THE THING ABOUT fury. It starts in your chest. It starts as fear. Fear quickly moves to denial. No, that must be a mistake. No, that can't be. And then the truth hits. Yes, she is right. Yes, it can be. Because you realize, Yes, it is true. And then you have a choice. Are you sad, or are you angry? And ultimately, the thin line between the two comes down to the answer to one question. Can you assign blame? The loss of my father, when I was seven, was something for which I only ever had one person to blame. My father. My father was driving drunk. He’d never done anything like it before. It was entirely out of character. But it happened. And I could either hate him for it, or I could try to understand it. Your father was driving under the influence and lost control of the car. But this. The knowledge that my father never willingly got behind the wheel of a car drunk, that he was left dead on the side of the road by this woman, framed for his own death, his legacy tarnished. The fact that I grew up believing he’d been the one to cause the accident. There is so much blame hanging in the air, waiting for me to snatch it and pin it on Evelyn’s chest. And the way she is sitting in front of me, remorseful but not exactly sorry, makes it clear she’s ready to be pinned. This blame is like a flint to my years of aching. And it erupts into fury. My body goes white-hot. My eyes tear. My hands ball into fists, and I step away because I am afraid of what I might do. And then, because stepping away from her feels too generous, I edge back to where she is, and I push her against the sofa, and I say, “I’m glad you have no one left. I’m glad there’s no one alive to love you.” I let go of her, surprised at myself. She sits back up. She watches me.