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?
It's actually the one letter I've written that I considered sending. But that heart I told you I had? Guess it works because hurting him like that wasn't on my agenda, no matter how badly he hurt us, hurt her.
Beside the mess of papers etched in my handwriting lies the stack of mostly unopened letters from him, all containing the same markings, wielding the same branding. These aren't even all of them either. They'd never fit in one box.
They've been coming a lot more frequently lately. The closer it gets to his release, the more he sends. I don't know why, I don't know what they could possibly contain. Nothing he could write down on a lousy letter would take away the years of hurt he left behind. Even if he has reformed himself, he's still the same man. The one I get to visit in my nightmares.
I press the letter in the box, ignoring the way it bends the others as I forcefully find it a place. The lid is slammed shut before the box is promptly shoved back beneath my bed.
I should be sleeping right now, I should be getting rest before my flight to New York in the morning. Every summer, I spend a few weeks volunteering at the local community center in a small town outside of Albany, Tommy's hometown. His sister Sadie and her husband Austin have opened their home to me every time. And seeing as their daughter, June, is my best friend, I anticipate it each and every time. It's also nice to visit Tommy's side of the family.
You see, Tommy married my mom when I was seven years old. He came into our lives at the most perfect time, sweeping my mom right off her feet and giving us a complete family, one we never truly knew. He became my dad. Sure, we don't actually share DNA, but by all things that actually matter, he's my dad.
So, getting to spend some time every summer seeing where he grew up, working at the same community center he used to volunteer at, I don't know, it just means something more.
I flip my phone over, checking the time again, only to be more disappointed at the fact that it's officially morning by AM standards and I'm still completely unable to fall asleep. That letter burning a hole through my chest. I wish it weren't. I wish it was just a damn letter. That I could add it to the box and push it out of my head. But it's never that easy. It's never just a letter.
With a heavy exhale, I push myself up, trudging out to the kitchen in defeat. There's only one way I can possibly find peace tonight.
Setting the kettle on the stove, I swing around to the cupboard, grabbing two mugs and placing them on the counter. Next, I reach for the packets, tearing them open and pouring them into each cup. When the water begins to whistle, I reach for the kettle, pouring the water just over halfway before stirring it all together. Watching the powdered chocolate dissolve in a steady swirl of piping hot water begins to add to that sense of calm I'm desperately craving.
The sound of the fridge opening has a small smile forming on my face as Tommy's presence becomes known. He brings the milk over, filling up each cup to the top, cooling it down to perfection. We don't say anything, not before our masterpiece is complete with marshmallows and a perfect sprinkle of cinnamon.
We both grab our respectable mugs and take a seat at the counter. There's still an ounce of silence as we each take our first sip, the warm rush of chocolate soothing the tangled pieces inside.
"I take it you're not here because you're anxious about your flight this morning?" Tommy jumps in, getting our late night hot chocolate conversation started.
We've been having these ever since I was a kid. Started out on the night when the nightmares hit. They used to happen a lot. Mom would cuddle beside me or I'd join them in bed, the comfort and safety of their arms all I needed to keep me tethered to reality. One night, when it just wasn't enough to stay in the quiet of their room, Tommy brought me out here. He made us hot chocolate and we just talked.
I don't know. It's just, him and I have a shared experience. We both witnessed humanity at its worst that day, we shared a fear in that moment. And we share more in common than just that night. He gets what it's like to lose a father in a similar way I did, to witness things no child should ever have to see. And because of that, he's made the perfect hot chocolate companion.
"No," I whisper, gripping my fingers around the warm porcelain. "I'm not anxious about the flight. I'm excited to see everyone."
His smile is bright, the thought of his family surely taking over. But then his eyes pull up, meeting mine and falling a bit more serious. "You got a letter today?"
I nod, letting my eyes fall back down to the melted marshmallows creating a creamy topping across the dark brown beneath it.
"Didn't open it," I add, still unable to lift my eyes. "He's getting out..."
"He is," Tommy acknowledges, reaching out a hand and gripping mine. "But that doesn't mean anything has to change for you. Not until you're ready."
My eyes finally slip over to his. I feel like this is a moment where I should be crying, tears shedding over a man who should have been here, a man who never truly acted like a man at all. But I have nothing.
"What if I'm never ready?"
There's a deep breath that fills his chest, lifts his shoulders before dropping. "Mia-"
"I don't owe him anything."
He's still watching me. Still holding on. "You're right, you don't. But there might come a time when you want answers. A time when you just want to see him. And if that time comes, it's okay. It's okay to want to get to know him, who he is now."
"And if it doesn't come? If I don't ever want to see him?"
He's quiet, the words circling behind his eyes. "Then you don't see him. It's your choice, Mia."
My choice. It doesn't always feel that way. It feels more like a lingering obligation. Something I'm supposed to do. To offer forgiveness so he can heal, to be there to witness the change he's undergone. I just don't know that I can. I don't know that forgiveness is something that he actually deserves. Not after all the lives he's altered.
"Do you think Sadie will go all out this year?" I smile up at Tommy, changing the subject to something much lighter. Something that actually has me excited.
His smile brightens right alongside mine. I also catch the acknowledgement in his eyes, the realization that I need to talk about something else. "Seeing as this is the last summer with you two girls before you're both college bound, I would expect the whole welcoming committee, complete with banners."
"And cupcakes?"
"Oh, there will definitely be cupcakes."
I can't help but laugh, thankful for the feelings of joy in this moment. It's exactly what I needed, and I wouldn't have expected anything less.
As Tommy stands, he rests a hand on my shoulder, letting me know he's still here. Whatever I need, he's always here, always has been. As he turns to walk away, the realization that I won't always have these moments, not when I'm away at school, I stop him.
"Hey, Dad?"
He turns slowly. "Yeah?"
"Thank you."
We don't say anything after that. Instead, he takes two steps back, swinging his arms around me, cherishing every bit of this moment.
*****
A welcoming committee was an understatement. Sadie has an eye for aesthetics and a personal passion for going over the top. The house was decorated in various welcome back signs, streamers, and of course, cupcakes. Not to mention the fact that she's currently in the kitchen whipping up my favorite dinner.
I'm currently unpacking my clothes and filling the dresser space June graciously leaves me every summer. I also have a nice little section of the closet. For a girl who loves her clothes, she always manages to make space for me. I'm grateful for it. Even though I'd be just as happy living out of my suitcase, she makes sure that while I'm here, this is my home too.
"I miss you already baby," June's voice sails across the room, complete with dramatic flair. She's got my phone pressed to her chest now as she completely overdramatizes the cuteness the message holds. "That is so freaking cute," she squeals.
I can't help but roll my eyes as I grab my phone from her hands. "It's..." I begin, my words trailing off as I search for the perfect response. One that delivers the right sentiment, while still holding my ground.
My boyfriend, Ben, wasn't exactly excited I'd be gone for a few weeks. Seeing as college departures are approaching, and these last months together are all we have before thousands of miles are placed between us, he was hoping to spend most of these days together. He's feeling a little wounded that I "abandoned" him.
"Oh, come on, Mia," June continues. "He's just showing you he cares."
She's right. I know she's right. It's one of the reasons I'm with him. He does truly care. And he shows me that in so many ways. But my summers in New York are tradition, and I don't see why a few weeks apart is such a terrible thing. I'll be home before he even knows it.
"I know," I plop down on the bed, gripping the phone in my hands as I let out a loud exhale. "But is it normal to miss someone after just twenty-four hours?"
She twirls around on her feet, taking two strides over before plopping herself beside me.
"I think he really loves you. And I don't think that's a bad thing if you really like him too."
I do like him. I wouldn't be with him if I didn't. And I wouldn't have agreed to long distance once we're at college if I didn't.
"I do like him," I say it out loud, convincing all in attendance of those very words.
"Okay," she draws out, clearly skeptical of my feelings. "What is it exactly that you like about him?"
That's easy. "He's nice. He cares about me and treats me well. I can trust him, and he's really smart."
She's staring at me now. Those big doe eyes of hers gazing as if there's more coming.
"That's it?" she questions, still waiting for me to continue. When all I do is shrug my shoulders, her jaw slightly drops. I know the whole romantic, boy crazy side of her is about to spring to life, so I brace myself for impact. "This is your boyfriend we're talking about, right? The one who misses you? Who calls you baby?"
"I hate it when he calls me baby," I respond without even thinking. "Makes me feel like a child."
"What?"
I look back at her, the shock on her face causing one of confusion to fall across mine.
"Mia, I'm pretty sure a guy calling you baby should have your panties dropping to the floor."
June and her dramatics. I'm pretty sure a guy calling her any pet name would have her panties dropping to the floor, figuratively speaking of course. "I don't think it works that way for everyone."
"I think it works when you actually have butterflies and that little tingle of desire with a guy. And by the looks of things, I don't think you have that."
"I think," I stand from the bed now, making my way across the room. "That all of those things, those feelings, make you fall to your knees. Make you surrender yourself to the control of a man."
"And who's being dramatic now?" She rolls her eyes, giving me that June look. The one where she thinks she's right.
"Look, I've seen it. Every time a woman gives into those butterflies and lust filled desires that swarm her heart, she's opening herself up to be let down."
She shakes her head, letting out a sigh that tells me she's either getting confused or a little frustrated. If I had to guess, it's probably a bit of both. "What are you even talking about?"
"You remember Dax?"
Her eyes drop, the question falling across them. "That loser who cheated on you freshman year?"
"No." But thanks for the reminder. "I'm talking about the last guy to give me butterflies. Not the first."
"Oh," she says, remembering. "The douche you dated junior year?"
I nod. "The same guy who believed the word no was a matter of opinion, not a stated fact."
"Okay," she nods, slowly catching on. "But I also know that the swift kick to the family jewels you gave him kept you completely in control of the situation."
I can't help but smile at the thought of that. The look on his face was priceless. Thank you, Tommy, for that short and very useful lesson in self defense.
"It did. But the point is, it only takes one moment. One swarming fleet of butterflies to make you lose your judgment. To plant yourself in situations with jackasses that appear to be Prince Charming on the outside. I may have handled things, but my own mom is living proof of what emotions can make you ignore."
June's body tenses slightly, a small breath escaping her now. She knows everything. Every memory I've lived and witnessed, every nightmare that still lingers in the background, every damn story my mom used to tell in order to cover the things my sperm donor used to do to her. He was a manipulative ass, but she loved him. She loved her family even more. All things that made her stick up for him, cover for him when she should have left.
"Mia," she begins, this time the fight behind her words has faded. There's compassion there now, understanding.
"Don't you get it, June? If I let my heart and my gut steer me toward love, I'm only bound to lose myself."
She stands from the bed now too, taking a small step forward. "What about all of the successes you are surrounded by, Mia?" Her question lands in front of me. "Your mom may have let love get the best of her one time, but then she bounced back, found true love in the end. And your aunt and uncle? You tell me all the time how much they love each other. And look at my parents. There's more success stories around you than failures."
"It only takes one, June." I'm being cynical, I know. I just can't seem to help using logic when it comes to something like this.
Her hands raise before slamming against her thighs, the loud clap filling the room along with what appears to be a very frustrated breath. "So, what? You just plan to never fall in love so that you never have to give up control of your emotions and feelings?"
"I didn't say I'll never fall in love, but staying in control keeps me from drowning in it. All I'm saying is that I'm going to be smart about it."
And Ben just happens to be the smart option, the safe one. He's not a cheater, or the guy who won't take no for an answer. He's not the guy that doesn't call when he says he will. He always calls. Sometimes too often. Who could really argue that that's a bad thing? Well, I guess June could. But she's driven by butterflies, not common sense.
She laughs now, not the kind that usually comes in response to humor. It's more of the mocking type, the one laced with a bit of confusion and frustration. "I don't think your brain gets much of a say when you start falling."
"Yeah, well," I shrug my shoulders, respectfully ignoring her opinion on the matter. We're all entitled to our own view when it comes to falling in love. June's more about the magical fairytale we grow up seeing in the movies or reading about in books. I just so happen to believe it's not all about the fuzzies. "I haven't let my heart win yet, I don't see that changing in my future."
She shakes her head before walking to the door. "I can't wait to meet the guy who turns your world upside down," she says, turning away from me and stepping out into the hall.
"Don't hold your breath," I shout after her, knowing damn well that I can stay in control of what my heart feels.