“Please,” he said.

The man who had terrorized his family for thirty-four years, reduced to begging.

“We were desperate.” And I looked at him, and I answered with the truth.

“Desperate people take out a loan,” I said.

“They sell a car.

They downsize.

They ask for help.

Desperate people do not beat their daughter unconscious, dump her in an alley, and laugh while she bleeds, to cover up their own crimes.” And when he asked, his voice cracking, whether I could ever find it in my heart to forgive them, I gave him the only answer I had.