I only had to not lie about it, and let Leo, in his own time, draw his own conclusions from the plain record of the man’s absence.

That way, whatever Leo came to feel about Luca, he arrived at it himself, from the truth, and not from his mother’s rage — which means it is his, clean, uncontaminated by my bitterness, and which means that the half of himself that is his father’s remains his own to make peace with, in whatever way he eventually chooses.

I protected the drawing.

I protected the heart.