I felt small. Incredibly small.
My father died last night.
A man I spent my life trying to escape.
He was never a good dad, but he was a father. The best he could be, I suppose. My mother died when I was young, and now this loss feels final, like I have been left alone in the world. It made me think I should have called more, made me think I should have visited more.
Guilt pressed into my chest. It was too heavy to carry.
Part of me knew he didn’t deserve it. Another part hated myself for letting my pride win, for choosing distance because I needed it to survive.
We don’t choose our parents. They don’t choose us. And yet, leaving feels inevitable. We go, and they stay. Somewhere along the way, we learn to build a family out of people who are not our blood, people we choose because they bring peace into our lives.
My father was never my peace.
I feared him—an ex cop who brought nothing but structure and intimidation into our home. When the nightmares caught up with him, he tried to drown them in alcohol. When that failed, he turned to me. If I raised my voice, his belt made sure I wouldn’t do it again.
And because he was a cop, no one asked questions. Bruises were labeled accidents. Silence was easier than truth.
Still, nothing prepares you for their death.
Even though it is over, even though he can no longer hurt me, even though I buried those memories beneath new faces and new lives, I am crying. Uncontrollably.
I sit there, torn between choices, trying to decide whether I should go to the funeral. Whether I should stand in front of strangers and read the speech I wrote last night.
A speech for a man I feared.
A man I escaped.
A man I somehow still mourn.
And I just wrote three words on a piece of torn paper.
“I forgive you.”
Even though my father was terrible, my mother taught me how to be strong. She taught me that forgiveness is not about excusing what someone did. It’s about letting go. And by letting go, you make room to move on. Moving on brings new life. And I needed something new.
My hands began to shake as I wiped the tears from my face. My gaze dropped to the marks on my left wrist, just below the small rose tattoo tucked into the corner. I got it when I turned eighteen. Back when I thought I had already survived the worst of it.
A door slammed shut behind me.
A man stepped onto the rooftop. He wore a black hoodie, and the overhead light hit just right, blinding me, keeping his face hidden in shadow.
His voice was deep when he spoke. “Shit. Am I interrupting?”
I shook my head as I turned slightly toward him.
“Do you want me to push you?” he asked. “You know. If you want to jump?”
I let out a short laugh. “Not planning to jump.”
“Then why are you here?” he asked. He stayed where he was, still out of sight.
“Just trying to clear my mind,” I said.
“It’s a bit high for a peace of mind,” he chuckled. “But who am I to judge?”
“You came up here to jump?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder.
