The Art of Forgiveness(Kevina) It’s raining. The windshield wipers are going full blast, along with the heater. I grasp the steering wheel with both hands, trying to concentrate on driving. But my mind keeps going back to that day, too long ago it seems.

Alcohol was involved. I know that’s partly responsible. My dad is raging, like he always does every time he touches a bottle. I’m trying to get the kids out of the room; I hate for them to see him like this. I had had such high hopes for him. He’d been sober nearly a month now. But it took so little to push him over the edge, to drive him back to liquor.

He's yelling now, and I’m trying to ignore him as I clean up dinner from the table. But the words blast through to my head. Worthless. Useless. Ugly. Just words, but they hurt so much.

Finally he goes to the one subject he knows will push me over the edge; my children. He says how their dad was right to leave us, to leave them. And now I’m yelling too, saying how mom was the smart one, to get as much money out of him as she could before leaving. And then we’re just yelling, each trying to outdo the other. Soon it gets down to insults, childish really.

I’m out of breath, my heart pounding in my chest. I stop yelling, and after a few more slurred insults, so does he. He says it softly, almost calmly, and I barely make out the words.

“I love your sister so much more than you.”

A car honks as I almost hit them. I slam on the brakes. I sit there for a few moments, waiting for the rain to clear, until I realize it's not rain, it’s the tears in my eyes. The light turns green. The car in front of me goes through. I take a moment to wipe my eyes, before also going through the intersection.

I’m speechless at this insult. Never before has he dared utter this. My sister, who has one child out of wedlock. My sister, who steals money from her family to buy her drugs. Who doesn’t work, and slums off anyone who will shelter her for a night.

And here I am, moved in with my alcoholic father, sharing one room with my two children, who’s father I was married to before they were born. I slave everyday to keep the house clean, to cook the meals, to keep everyone sane.

That’s it. I don’t even say anything. I just stand there, too numb for tears. Then I calmly go into the small room I share with my daughter and son, and comfort them, wipe away their tears, since they’ve heard us fighting through the walls.

I tell them to pack, that we’re going on a trip. We all pack in silence and leave the house that way. My bag in one hand, Lily in the other. She turns with her innocent five year old eyes to say goodbye to her grandfather, but I tug her away, and she starts to cry again as we walk to the car.

I get the kids in, and I don’t look back as we drive away.

Too long ago. Almost seven years. Who holds a grudge for seven years? I am glad he forgave me, did what I did not have the guts to do. I have memorized the note.

My Daughter,

I know you hate me. That last night, I did and said things that no father should say to his children. I was a drunk back then, but that is no excuse.

I know it’s too much to ask of you to be proud of me, but I’ve been sober ever since that night. Alcohol turned me into someone I hated. Someone I never expected to be.

I remember when I first held you in my arms, the night your mother gave birth to you. You were crying, and slimy, and had that puffiness that newborn babies have. But I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

I love you. With all my heart. And I hope that you forgive me, although I’ve never had the strength to forgive myself.

I love you.

Daddy Henry



And I did forgive him. As I wept, holding the small piece of paper in my hand. I realized the forgiveness is a sense of healing, and it is not a weakness, it is a strength.

I finally arrive at my destination. I pull in and approach him.

“Hi, Dad.” That seems lame. But I’m going to be completely honest with my feelings. “Been awhile. Sorry I haven’t been by lately, I’ve been busy.”

And I sit down beside him and tell him about Lily’s grades, about Jared’s scholarship offers from the major universities. I tell him about how happy I am with Bill, my husband of three years. And as I get up to go, I smile down at him.

“I love you, Daddy. And I forgive you.”

I walk away from the grave. And I think about how happy I am that he forgave me, wrote that letter for me, days before his death. And how disappointed I am in myself for not being there. But there is no reason to dwell on guilt. Because he forgave me, and I him.

Some forgiveness just comes too late.

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