All I could offer in my memoir was my truth—as best as I could tell it.  And the only truth I could offer, as many have said, was a version of the truth.  I could only offer my version of the truth, and I could offer only one of my versions of the truth.  (Remember the layers of paintings?)  Everyone has their truth and my memoir could present mine, and no one else’s.  In the memoir, I didn’t intend to violate anyone else’s truth.  That is theirs, and sacred.  I just ask the world to grant me mine as well.