When I get home, I instinctively toss my bag onto the couch. I'm tired. I'm angry. My eyes feel dry and stiff, as if they've been wrung out like wet laundry.
I sit down without bothering to remove my coat or shoes. I reply to my mother's email regarding her flight information for tomorrow. Then I lift my legs, resting my feet on the coffee table. As I do, my foot knocks against an envelope resting on the surface.
It's only then I realize I even own a coffee table.
David brought it back. On it rests an envelope addressed to me.
I should never have taken the table. I don't need it. It's silly letting it sit in a storage unit. I was being petty when I left.
Enclosed is my key to the apartment, along with my lawyer's business card.
I suppose there isn't much else to say, except that I thank you for doing what I could not.
—D
I set the letter down on the table. I put my feet back up. I wrestle out of my coat. I kick off my shoes. I lean my head back. I breathe.
I don't think I would have ended my marriage without Evelyn Hugo.
I don't think I would have stood up to Frankie without Evelyn Hugo.
I don't think I would have had the chance to write a surefire bestseller without Evelyn Hugo.
I don't think I would understand the true depths of my father's devotion to me without Evelyn Hugo.
So I think Evelyn is wrong about at least one thing.
My hate is not uncomplicated.