I decided not to spend our reunion on Margaret. I could have. God knows there was rage available to me — fifty-five years of it, a whole stolen life, a sister who let me grieve a living man out of jealousy she nursed since we were girls. I could have spent Danny’s visit, and however many days I have left, burning with it.
But here is what I understood, holding Danny’s hands: Margaret already won fifty-five years. If I spent the years I have left being poisoned by what she did, she’d win those too. And I was not going to give her one more day than she’d already taken. The best possible answer to a person who stole your love out of spite is to love anyway, in whatever time remains, and refuse to let their cruelty have the last word.
