“Yeah. I stayed for two years and got the help that I needed. Getting off drugs and alcohol was the worst pain of my life, but the hardest part was learning how to walk through life with all my regrets and not having a way to numb myself from them all…my worst regret being how I treated you.”
I give him a nod of understanding, thankful that he finally sought some help but sad that it wasn’t soon enough. “I’d say that’s a heavy burden to carry.”
His face contorts, and he places a hand onto his back, wincing in pain. “The heaviest,” he says with a loud exhale.
Clarity crashes into me all at once. That it’s because of my pain that I can be someone who helps build others up. Because of my pain, I have an understanding and a forgiving heart. Because of my pain, I can look past the worst and see the best in people. Because of my pain, I know how to leave people better than how I found them.
All this applies to my dad. I have to understand that the pain he inflicted on me helped me to grow because, oftentimes, I found myself seeking God the most during those excruciating moments. I’m no longer asking Him, ‘Why did this have to happen to me?’Instead, I can say, ‘I understand why.’ And because of that, I’m able to surrender to Him.
I swallow hard, my eyes fixed on the man who once made me feel so small, and I choose to surrender to God.
“I used to think that you damaged me,” I say quietly. “And maybe in some ways, you did. You left scars that I’ve had to learn how to live with, but the truth is...that pain shaped me. Itmade me fight to be someone better. I learned to lean on God when I didn’t have anyone else.”
My dad’s gaze flickers up at me, uncertainty shining within them as he listens.
“I used to hate you, but now I think I finally understand. I’m not saying what you did was okay, because it wasn’t, but I know that God used it anyway. He used you, even in your brokenness, in order to help me grow into the man that I was meant to become.”
I exhale a slow, shaky breath, and it finally feels like something inside me lets go, like a tight fist unclenching after years of gripping too hard.
“And I just... I need you to know that.”
When I look up, my dad is staring at me like he’s not sure he heard me right. His mouth opens then closes. His eyes are wet, red-rimmed. He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to hold back whatever’s building inside him.
His shoulders sag with a lifetime of shame and failure. I catch the trembling in his hands as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, the way he used to when he didn’t know how to say what he felt—something I inherited from him.
“I, uh… I’m not sure that I deserve that,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “But thank you. Before I die, I want to make things right between us.”
“What do you mean?” I set my mug down onto the coffee table so I can put my hands together. I’m trying to stop their shaking by giving my fingers a squeeze.
“I know where I belong after this life. I know the place I earned and that there isn’t anything I can do to change it. That’s on me. But you have to keep on living with the burdens that I caused, and I don’t want to miss the opportunity to try to lift that from you, if I can. I don’t want to keep hurting you. I want to be able to help you move on from the pain I inflicted.”
I sit back, as if his words have physically slapped me across the face, because he thinks after everything he’s done in his life,that he isn’t worth saving. As someone who has a relationship with Jesus, I know that to be wrong.
“That’s not your responsibility anymore,” I say, looking into his eyes. “Because I’ve already forgiven you.”
I realize then that forgiveness isn’t something that is loud or comes crashing like a wave in a storm. It doesn’t arrive as some huge revelation. It comes in quiet moments like this, when the ache in my chest is no longer twisting as tight. When I can sit in the same room as the man who has caused me the most pain and no longer feel the heat of anger. It doesn’t choke me anymore.
Sure, the old memories still linger in the back of my mind. For years, I have carried them like heavy stones in my pockets, dragging them through every relationship, every room, every version of myself. The weight hasn’t disappeared, but it has become something I can set down.
Here, now, watching my dad, who’s frail and breaking in a way I would never wish on anyone, something transforms inside my heart. Looking at my dad, I realize that he doesn't know how to forgive himself. He wears his guilt like armor and is convinced it’s some sort of penance for his actions, as if hating himself could somehow undo everything he’s done in the past.
I know that trap. I lived in it for years.
My dad stirs, eyelids fluttering, lips parting like he wants to say something. I reach over and rest a hand gently on his arm, to say without words:You don’t have to carry it anymore.
“What?” he finally says, disbelief flooding his voice. He’s shaking his head, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, and it causes my own to fall. “You can’t. You shouldn’t.”
“But I have.” I scoot my chair closer to him and do something I never thought I would ever do. I take his hand, the hand that has inflicted so much pain in my life, into mine. “And it’s time that you forgive yourself.”
His lips quiver as he says, “What’s the point? I know where my soul is going.”
With strength that I’ve never felt before, I smile at him and give his hands a light squeeze. “I don’t think you do. Have you been to church since…”
“I-I’ve tried over my sober years to go to church and read the Bible, but I’ve never been good at understanding it.” He takes his free hand, which is trembling, and he wipes away his tears.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to go to church or understand the Bible to have the redemption you’ve been seeking. All that you need is to believe in Jesus wholeheartedly.” I pause for a moment, attempting to regain my composure, before I add, “Dad, do you want to be saved?”
He thinks about it for a moment, his eyes moving down to the picture that fell into his lap, before he returns his gaze to me and gives me a nod. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting the past. It means that our story can finally have a different ending.
