“Do you still love him?” “I . . .” Rose hesitated. “I don’t know. I love the person I thought he was—that’s not the same, is it?” She scraped off another fragment of lichen. “The Gypsies I knew in England used to say that not to forgive someone is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die.” “That’s how I felt about . . .” Lola clamped her mouth shut. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, call him “my father.” “How could you possibly have forgiven what he did?”
