Any evidence is enough evidence because love is a documented thing, left in postcards and film which didn’t exist until dead, and you’ll take a scrap of apology and you’ll sleep better, and every meeting will go better, because the hanging weight’s a little lighter. And this, your brother, is a liar you never thought lied, never knew existed, and you can alter lives momentarily and you do and the slideshow makes it worth it, although, actually, the past shouldn’t impact on the present, when you think about it. There’s meant to be a move on, learn from process, which you are totally not at ease with. You’re uncomfortable even now with the idea you could be somebody’s sister, daughter, girl. That you stack up to more than a breath mint.