My father clears his throat. “Mairead, love.”
“I’m fine,” she lies.
He takes over then, his voice calm but edged with disapproval. “You were wrong. You know that now.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I close my eyes. “And I own it.”
“That’s not enough,” he says plainly. “What are you going to do?”
The question lands heavy. “I’m not going to ask her for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it yet.”
“Good,” my mother mutters weakly.
“But I needed you to know the truth. To say it.”
Astutely, my father asks, “And what’s that?”
“I chose my career, my image, my comfort over the woman I loved.”
There’s a pause, then my father says carefully, “Yes. You did. Did you ever love her? Truly?”
“I’m not certain I ever stopped,” I admit baldly. I swallow before admitting, “When I was injured, hers was the face I saw before I blacked out. When I got the news I was never going to play again, all I could think about was how it would be different if she was still in my life.”
If it wasn’t for the shaky breath my mother lets out, I’d wonder if they’d hung up on me. The silence stretches out that long. Finally, my father asks, “So how do you plan to atone for what you’ve done? Because remorse without change is worthless.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “First, I need to know the woman she is today. She’s…not the same. She’s strong.”
Silence.
“I don’t mean she wasn’t back then,” I add quickly. “But she has the strength of her convictions shaping who she is. It’s made her powerful.”
“Good,” my mother says forcefully.
“I have to understand the woman she became after I failed her.”
“And you? What about you?” my father asks.
I swallow my pity down. “I’m going to work with someone to figure out why I did what I did.”
My mother sniffles. “That’s a start.”
“I need to know who I am. Why did I let ambition excuse what was happening to her?” Their silence propels me to go on. “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I don’t know if she should. But I won’t lie to myself anymore. I was wrong.”
My father exhales slowly. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said about it.”
“I’m done being that man—boy,” I correct myself. “Things got hard and I ran.”
My mother’s voice is softer now. She reminds me, “You can’t go back, Brennan. Not just because it’s too late, but because you’ve both changed too much to do anything but move forward.” She reminds me.
My voice cracks, “I just don’t know how to move forward.”
Another pause before my father finally says, “You’ve got two separate issues, Brennan. Making up for the past and setting yourself right. Take care with both.”
“I understand.” At least I think I do.
