He asks, carefully, if I ever think about Beckett.

Sometimes, I tell him honestly.

He asks if I’m still angry.

And I look out at the roses along the white fence and find that I am not, and tell him why: anger would mean giving him a room in my mind, and he has taken enough of my property already.

Beckett wanted my grandfather’s fortune and my life and my daughter’s future, and in reaching for all of it he lost every single thing he had ever pretended to love.

He is in a concrete cell with no name worth saying.