She will have Rhett’s own words, the photographs of the boy he was, the record of the gifts he sent to a trust account hoping they would reach children he was not allowed to reach.

And she will make up her own mind about her father, as is her right, unpoisoned by mine.

That is the last and hardest discipline of raising children on the truth: you have to give them the whole of it, including the parts that might make them more generous toward someone who hurt you than you can manage to be yourself.

I do not know what my children will decide about Rhett when they are grown.