Mia Hill. College bound with an athletic scholarship. A go-getter with big dreams and a fully thought out plan to make sure they come true.
But with her father's release from prison looming and the inevitable stresses of adulting, everything she wa...
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Forgiveness is a wicked concept.
It's built around the idea of letting someone off the hook for their wrongdoings. Some people say it will set you free. I think that's a load of crap.
I actually come from a long line of forgiving people. Some related by blood, like my mom or my Uncle Trevor. And some not, like my stepdad Tommy and my Aunt Lacy. You'd think I'd be more open to the concept after seeing so many people around me give into it, but I'm not. Call me a cynic, but I'm just not there yet. I can't seem to wrap my head around the concept of letting someone's painful decisions just go excused.
Some actions fall outside the realm of forgiveness. And I think it's okay to let them linger there.
Let's clear something up before this goes any further. I'm not a robot. I do have a heart ticking in my chest, and I am actually capable of forgiveness. I just believe the concept has layers. That some things lie in a category of unforgivable and it's okay to let them stay there.
Other things are more forgivable by nature. Like the time Leo kicked a soccer ball straight to my face in the fourth grade. Can't blame a kid for having two left feet. He apologized, I forgave him. I honestly think I wore that bloody nose like a fucking champ. Took a little more convincing for my stepdad to forgive the whole debacle though.
Layers. Forgiveness has layers.
As I stare down at the letter in my hands, the state prison return address burning a hole across the envelope, I can't help but linger on the very idea of forgiveness. If my dad, by DNA standards only, was worthy of my forgiveness, I think time would have weathered my walls. That's the thing, time has only added the steel bars to my barriers. And that speaks volumes. Tells me forgiving him isn't the next step in my story. Forgiving him is one of those thick layers that sink to the bottom, unable to be uncovered.
I bend forward, reaching for the box beneath my bed. It's worn, faded from the many years it's spent collecting dust. As I slowly pull it open, the large stack of envelopes slides across the opening, bouncing free from their suppressed confinement.
Beside the many unopened letters are the folded papers coated in my handwriting, words I never sent. My fingers slide across the various notes filling the space beside his envelopes. Each one slightly different, telling a story of its own. Some on ripped out pieces of a notebook, the fringed edges still clinging to the sides. Others are written on fancy journal paper or small phrases gathered on sticky notes.
I graze the one note written on a napkin. I remember this one. It was my thirteenth birthday. A teenager. My mom and stepdad took me to my favorite burger place at my request. It's all I wanted. A dinner with my family. And yet, I couldn't seem to fill this voided hole in my chest that day. One that had no right to be there. So I grabbed a napkin, pretended to doodle, and wrote down a few choice words to get the ache out of my ribcage.
Writing to him, knowing he'll never get to see the words, carries a certain sense of satisfaction. It allows me to get my thoughts out. Sometimes the words are laced with anger, other times it's pain or emptiness. Sometimes it's a joyful moment, like my mom's wedding day. Watching her walk down the aisle wearing a genuine smile, the look on Tommy's face like she was his entire world. He still looks at her like that. I think a love like that deserves to be written down, don't you?
