“You lived here?”
I look around at the faded carpet and the peeling paint on the walls. Boxes of takeout food sit on the counter, and empty bottles litter the stained couch and recliner. Other than the trailer being older with a little wear and tear, the place hasn’t changed much since I lived here.
“We lost our home by the time I turned thirteen, so yeah,” I shrug. “This was home sweet home for five years before I could graduate and get the hell out of here.”
“Did Miles know?”
“No, I never brought him here. I knew he would insist I come live with him, and I was too guilt-ridden to leave. I felt I deserved this. I was too wrapped up in my own personal hell to admit that I could be wrong,” I sigh. “You’re the first person I’ve let see this dump.” I glance at the wall that still has the hole in it from his fist that I dodged.
“Once I left and started to get a paycheck from playing hockey, I sent him money each month to ease the guilt of him living like this because I still felt responsible. I even tried to get him to move out and offered to pay for rehab, but the stubborn ass refused to get help.”
“He was an alcoholic, Knox. You went beyond what most people would do after what he put you through. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want it.”
“I know, but I felt like I owed it to my mom to try,” I say quietly before taking a deep breath and focusing on what needs to be done, so we can leave.
I hate being here.
“Let’s see what we can find, so we can get the hell out of here.” I walk to his bedroom, and it’s not any better in here. It’s a wonder this place didn’t get condemned.
“What are we looking for?” She moves to the dresser and opens the top drawer.
“Anything from my mom. I have a couple of pictures I took when I left, but I was in too much of a hurry to fight him over anything. My only thought was getting as far away as possible from here,” I say, opening his nightstand drawer and rummaging through the junk.
“Anything of his that you want?”
“No,” I quickly say, my face turning hard as stone. “Once I leave here, the whole place can burn for all I care. I’ll see what the property is worth and donate the money and anything left in his bank accounts to my charity. This is a tie to my past, and I want it closed.”
“I think I found something,” she says, pulling out a box from under the bed with my name written on it.
Walking over to her, I lift the box and set it on the mattress, opening the lid.
Confusion hits me as I stare at newspaper articles about me. Frowning, I sift through them and see my whole life staring back at me. Every interview I’ve ever had, every game I’ve ever played, leading up to now, is here.
“There’s another one,” she whispers, pulling out another box from under the bed. Lifting the lid, I see my early childhood memories that my mom must have kept. Old trophies and awards, pictures of me and her with the team and at practices—everything tucked away in scrapbooks and photo albums.
I trace the picture of my mom’s face with my finger. This was taken right before she died, and her smile is still the brightest I’ve ever seen as she hugs me in a photo after our winning game.
“You look just like her. She’s beautiful,” Savi says softly, looking at the picture in my hand.
“She is,” I whisper. “I don’t understand.” I shake my head and put the picture back in the box. “Why did he keep these? He kept all these memories going after Mom died. This one here,” Isay, picking up one of the newspaper articles on top, “was from the game last week. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to get inside the head of an addict. Maybe under all that pain, he was numbing with alcohol, and he felt guilt for how he treated you after she died. He knew your mom would have kept these, so he did it for her. Under all that hate and resentment toward you, there was a part of him that loved you and was proud.”
“Cutting up newspaper articles doesn’t begin to make up for what he put me through. It’s not enough to forgive him.” I throw the article back in the box and shut the lid.
“There’s no excuse for the abuse he gave you, but forgiving someone isn’t about excusing them for what they did. It’s about you and not giving them the power anymore to hurt you. I finally had to forgive Todd,” she says quietly, and I whip my eyes to her. Even the name sends rage through my body.
“Not to excuse his actions,” she says quickly, “but to let go of the resentment toward him. I was letting the anger of what he did eat away at me. I forgave him so that I could move on. His actions that night were choices he made, not me. I wasn’t about to live the rest of my life being angry at something that someone else chose to do.”
“Did it work?” I ask quietly.
Wrapping her arms around my waist, I automatically do the same, bringing her in close.
“It doesn’t happen overnight, but once I decided to forgive him, the anger eventually went away, and I felt more at peace. The pain and fear took a little bit longer, but I’m happy now. Very, very happy,” she smiles, and her infectious joy has me smiling back.
“Maybe I’ll try this whole forgiving thing at some point. Don’t hold your breath with Todd, though. That anger got methrough a lot of fights in hockey, and feeling rage toward him is something I don’t think will ever go away.”
“We’ll do baby steps with that one,” she chuckles softly. “With your dad, though, I’ll be here when you are ready.”
