My muscles screamed. My knees buckled. The harness caught me.
“Again,” I said.
We went again.
***
Last week, for the first time since I was four, I stood with most of my weight on my own legs for a few seconds.
It wasn’t pretty. I shook. I cried.
Do I forgive him?
But I was upright.
I could feel the floor.
In my head, I heard Ray’s voice: “You’re gonna live, kiddo. You hear me?”
Do I forgive him? Some days, no.
Some days, all I feel is what he wrote in that letter.
He didn’t run from what he did.
Other days, I remember his rough hands under my shoulders, his terrible braids, his “you’re not less” speeches, and I think I’ve been forgiving him in pieces for years.
What I know is this: He didn’t run from what he did. He spent the rest of his life walking into it, one night alarm, one phone call, one sink-hair-wash at a time.
He couldn’t undo the crash. But he gave me love, stability, and now a door.
Maybe I’ll roll through it. Maybe one day I’ll walk.
Either way, he carried me as far as he could.
The rest is mine.
I think I’ve been forgiving him in pieces for years.
Which moment in this story made you stop and think? Tell us in the Facebook comments.
May you like
