“His lawyers handle his mail.

His staff handles his house.

He sits, from what I hear, on a beautiful empty terrace, all day, with all the money in the world and not one single soul who wants to sit beside him.” And I thought about that man on his empty terrace, rich beyond counting and poor beyond describing, and I found that the last of my anger had left me entirely, and what remained was exactly what I had begun to feel in the garden.

“I don’t hate him,” I said quietly.