he told me everything else.
The money he never talked about. The overtime. The trust he set up so I could have a future bigger than that room.
Everything he did…
was his way of trying to make it right.
“I couldn’t undo that night,” he wrote.
“But I tried to give you a life anyway.”
I didn’t know how to feel.
Anger. Love. Gratitude. Pain.
All at once.
A month later, I rolled into a rehab center.
For the first time in years, I tried.
Really tried.
They strapped me into a harness.
My legs trembled.
“Again,” I said.
And again.
And again.
Last week—
for the first time since I was four—
I stood.
Not perfectly. Not for long.
But I stood.
Do I forgive him?
Some days… no.
Some days, all I feel is what he took from me.
But other days—
I remember his hands steadying me. His terrible braids. His voice telling me I wasn’t less.
And I realize…
I’ve been forgiving him in pieces for years.
He couldn’t undo what happened.
But he didn’t run from it either.
He stayed.
He carried me as far as he could.
