The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

WHEN I GET HOME, I instinctively throw my bag onto the couch. I am tired, and I am angry, and my eyes feel dry and stiff, as if they have been wrung out like wet laundry.

I sit down, not bothering to take off my coat or my shoes. I respond to the e-mail my mother has sent containing her flight information for tomorrow. And then I lift my legs and rest my feet on the coffee table. As I do, they hit an envelope resting on the surface.

It is only then that I realize I even have a coffee table in the first place.

David brought it back. And on it rests an envelope addressed to me.

M—

I should never have taken the table. I don’t need it. It’s silly for it to sit in the storage unit. I was being petty when I left.

Enclosed is my key to the apartment and the business card of my lawyer.

I suppose there is not much else to say except that I thank you for doing what I could not.

—D

I put the letter down on the table. I put my feet back up. I wrestle myself out of my coat. I kick off my shoes. I lay my head back. I breathe.

I don’t think I would have ended my marriage without Evelyn Hugo.

I don’t think I would have stood up to Frankie without Evelyn Hugo.

I don’t think I would have had the chance to write a surefire bestseller without Evelyn Hugo.

I don’t think I would understand the true depths of my father’s devotion to me without Evelyn Hugo.

So I think Evelyn is wrong about at least one thing.

My hate is not uncomplicated.