"She has her father's heart," Monique said. "And her own stubborn feet."
They finished the dishes. Monique poured two glasses of the cheap red wine Thomas had brought months ago and that they were still working through with the dedication of people who understand that some bottles are meant to last. They sat at the kitchen table. From Ava's room came the sound of a chair scraping, a muttered word, the rustle of paper.
"Thomas," Monique said after a while. "Do you forgive him? Andrew."
He turned the wineglass slowly, watching the light catch in the surface.
"I forgive the boy who panicked in a parking lot," he said. "I am still working on forgiving the man who watched our father's funeral from across the street. I have fully forgiven the man who wrote that letter. All three of them were him. Forgiveness, it turns out, is not a single door. It's a hallway."
Monique nodded. She knew about hallways.
"And Marcus?" she asked, softer.
"Marcus I forgave before I finished reading," Thomas said. "He brought my brother home the only way he could. Late. Sealed. Imperfect. Home."