“I’m not going to forgive you,” I said.

“I know.”

“I want to be extremely clear about that. This isn’t the part of the story where I forgive you. You knew for twelve years and I was findable the entire time — I was in the phone book, I was in the *newspaper* when I matched, and you knew, and you said nothing, and if I had relapsed a third time at twenty-two you would have found out about it from a website.”

Megan didn’t argue. She sat there and took it with her hands flat on her knees, and I have to say, because it’s true: she took it well. She didn’t cry at me. That’s a skill.

“Okay,” she said.

“But I’m taking the money.”