I am the biggest fucking fool on this planet.
"I realized that I had been growing closer to this woman at work. Talking with her about personal things—my relationship with Sophie, the cancer, the fear, and anxiety. I was having regular meals with her, working on projects together, and hanging out. And I liked... I really liked the attention that this gorgeous woman was giving me. Then I started thinking about the unfairness of it all—yes, Sophie having to deal with this, but worse, thatIhad to deal with this too. I didn't sign up for this. I had never experienced anything like this before. And I didn't think I could handle it. I was a coward."
The truthful words shred like knives on their way out of my throat. Dr. Forseti said admitting the truth hurts because it's thefirst step in healing, like snapping a broken bone back into place. Painful, but necessary.
"I had an emotional affair before it became physical, and I had justified it by saying I loved Sophie, I wasn't crossing any real boundaries. I thought I had everything under control and that I was starting my life with the woman I love."
"But then life happened," Father Martin supplies gently, and it makes me jump a bit. I almost forgot he was there, so lost in my own reverie.
"I was terrified," I admit, the shame choking me. "Things became serious when everything with Sophie was always just so... easy. Then everything suddenly wasn't easy. Our time together and conversations were full of doctor appointments, medical bills, insurance, and surgery. I would have nightmares of her wasting away, of her changing, of her dying... now I've lost her anyway. I deserve to have lost her, but..."
"Fear can make us act out of character," Father Martin says, his voice like gravel softened by age. "But it doesn't excuse what we do."
"I don't want to use it as an excuse anymore," I say quietly. "I just want to fix it."
"Do you feel genuine remorse for what you did?"
"Yes," I answer before he's even done asking. "Every second of every day."
"Then you've taken the first small step."
It doesn't feel like a step; it feels like a stumble.
"Do you think I'm a good man, Father?" My voice cracks in half, desperation dripping from every syllable.
Father Martin takes a deep breath, "People are not inherently good or bad," he tells me, his voice firm, but compassionate. "There are only choices. It's why God gave us Free Will. Yourchoices—your sins—came from fear, pride, and pain. That's human, but so is repentance."
Tears sting my eyes. "Do you think she could ever forgive me? I regret it every second I breathe."
"Forgiveness is a gift, andyou're not owed it.She is within her rights not to ever forgive you, if her soul allows it. But your redemption shouldn't be dependent on whether those you've wronged absolve you. Because even if they do absolve you, things won't go back to the way they were, no matter how much you wish for them to."
Those words are painful, another reminder that no matter what, no matter how hard I wish, how much I want it, no matter how many good deeds I do, I cannot turn back time to when things were perfect with Sophie.
"True redemption comes fromchange. Whether you seek to be good,regardlessof whether anyone ever sees it or praises you for it."
"What do I do?"
"’He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?’Micah 6:8." He recites softly, before continuing. "You must now humble yourself, and you must take responsibility.Ifthey allow it, go to those you've hurt. Not to beg, but to own what you've done. You can't live in shame forever. That's not repentance, that's self-pity. And you must remember to change for yourself."
"That's what she said," I murmur automatically, the words washing over me, and I feel comforted.
"Who?"
"My therapist," I clarify, rubbing the back of my neck. "She told me I had to change for myself, not anyone else."
He chuckles softly. "She sounds like a wise woman."
I nod, before I remember that he can't see me. "She is."
"Humility is a heavy thing to bear, but you must bear it all the same," Father Martin says, before taking a deep breath. "Now I will do my part: I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Go in peace."
"Thank you, Father," I say, once I complete the sign of the cross and stand up to walk out of the booth. I'm not quite sure how I feel right now. The air feels no lighter, my chest no freer—but something in me has quieted.
I walk out to the parking lot and pass Maureen, who asks, "Do you feel better?"
I don’t answer, I just give her a small smile.
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