Afterward, a forty-eight-year-old painter named Rosa stayed behind. “My husband says I’m selfish for being here,” she confessed.

Evelyn recognized the shame in her voice. “Do you believe him?”

“Some days.”

Evelyn walked to the window. “For seventeen years, I believed the person closest to me had the clearest view of who I was.”

“Did you forgive him?”

Evelyn considered it. “Forgiveness is not the same as reopening the door.”