My mom usually comes with me. She’s stayed close with my dad’s family over the years and uses the trip to also visit oldcollege friends. It’s a whole thing—one I quietly dread every single year.
“Hey, Nonni.” I put the phone call over the speakers so I can start the drive to my house.
“Luke, how’s my favorite grandson?”
“You say every grandchild is your favorite.”
“Because they are!” she squeals. I’ve always loved her thick Italian accent. “I have to talk to you about something.”
I don’t like the way her voice cracks on that last word. It unsettles me, and I start to wonder…has my father tried to contact her too? What would that even mean? I feel the urge to hang up, to dodge this conversation entirely, but I don’t want to upset her.
“Yeah?” I ask, swallowing away the bile rising in my throat, and try to brace myself.
“Your father has kidney cancer.” I can hear the quake in her voice. I hate myself for not feeling an ounce of grief over the thought of my father dying from cancer. If anything, I cling to the fact that karma finally got the best of him.
“And? What’s this have to do with me?”
She scoffs, muttering something in Italian I can’t translate, then continues, “I know how awful your father has been. What a terrible parent he was to you. I’m speaking from experience when I say that it’s better to let go of hatred. It’ll only rot you from the inside.”
She exhales, and I can almost see her pinching the bridge of her nose, like she always does when talking about him.
“Your father was homeless. He needed a place to stay. And now that he’s in hospice…we let him come here. I just thought?—”
“Thought what? That I would feel sorry for him? Because I don’t.”
“Luke! Now you listen to me. This can be your opportunity to work on your heart. To finally let go of the hurt from your past. To finallymove forward.”
“He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness,” I spit, feeling the heat of anger rise up my neck. I shouldn’t take this out on her. She has been nothing but supportive and kind to my mother and me, despite the neglect from her son.
“Weallmake mistakes and need forgiveness. I’m not asking you to forget what he’s done. I’m asking you to consider what it might feel like to finally lay that burden down. God knows your pain. He knows exactly what your father did. Don’t you think He’ll bring you healing once you let it go?”
I’ve heard all this before—from my mother, from Raine, from members of my church, and from my therapist. And yet, I still refuse to listen, because I’m too stubborn to let go of the hurt. It's the sort of pain that took place on a molecular level; it always requires more work than it's worth. I'm only going to put myself through that kind of pain again when necessary, which historically has been when my back is against the wall. Right now, I still feel like I have a choice, and I'm taking it.
“I’m allowed to take my time to heal,” I admit, more to myself than to her.
“Yes, you are. But your time is running out.” Her voice falters, and I hate the sound of it.
There it is—that backed-into-a-corner feeling–like God’s quietly nudging me, telling me this is the moment to finally let go and start working on my heart. So why does it scare me so much?
“We have decided to move our Christmas celebration to next weekend. To give everyone a chance to say goodbye.”
“I can’t—” I say, pulling onto the side of the road because I’m starting to feel like I’m suffocating. I roll down my window, letting in the frigid air, inhaling a deep breath and welcoming the prickling feeling it leaves in the back of my throat. I pray that it’ll distract me from my racing heart.
“Luke, please come. Not for him. Not for me. But for you.”
I suck in another chest-burning breath, tightening my grip on the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking.
God, I’m not ready for this. I might not ever be. Help me, please.
“I’ll think about it,” I say to her before we say our goodbyes and end the phone call.
So many emotions are swirling inside of me, and I have no idea what to do with them all. If I hadn’t already been to the gym, I’d turn right around and go back. I need something to take the edge off.
It’s moments like this when I start craving the taste of alcohol.
As a teenager, drinking was the only way I knew how to cope. It numbed the pain and silenced my fears. I believed I needed it just to survive each day, but after the night of our graduation party, I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw someone I barely recognized—someone dangerously close to becoming my father. That night, I chose sobriety. I’ve held onto it ever since, determined not to become anything like him.
I place my forehead onto the steering wheel and inhale a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling. I repeat the silent prayer until the chaos inside me settles into a quiet calm.
