“You were! Live yourgoddamntruth, Dad.”
This time, I don’t cover my mouth after cursing. I meant it. I said it. If that’s what it takes to break through my father’s own walls, then so be it.
“Damn it!” he yells, causing his jugular to bulge from his neck. “Yes. I saw him preach. I was threatened. Is that what you want? Your father as a weak man? A gay man?” He drags his palms down his face.
His confession lands like a slap he didn't mean to give. I see him now. All of him. And it's ugly.
He was envious. Self-loathing. He touched another that wasn't his. He's a sinner of the worst kind because he preaches to seek forgiveness when he needs it the most.
I hate what he did.
I hate what it cost Jack.
I hate that part of me still sees my father inside this broken man.
But I do.
So I give him what he did not give me: Freedom to choose.
Slowly, I shake my head. “There’s nothing weak about living in reality. It’s not easy, but it’s where I want to be. Because the love is real.” It hurts, but I swallow my pride and wrap my arms around him. “I love you.”
I mean that, too.
There might be bile on my tongue, but there will always be love in my heart for this man. Ihave tobelieve some piece of him did those awful things out of love for me and not for the church.
That is what I tell myself. It is the only thing keeping me from breaking down. I need to survive this moment, even if I have to lie to myself.
He holds me for a long moment, and I let him. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t need to. I feel it in his body as it softens in surrender.
He pats my shoulder once before stepping back, slow and careful.
I give him a small nod because no words can heal what is still wounded. Maybe time. Maybe space. I don't know, yet.
I turn and grab my purse.
“I need to go.” I say.
Mom holds herself, leaning on the wall by the door, face crestfallen.
I touch my cheek, which is raised with welts. The skin is hot to the touch, but the real pain is that it happened.
My mother hit me.
I step closer, facing her on my own.
Unlike my father, there is something about what she did that feels more damning. She lied and manipulated, too, but she… she feels like the leader of it all. The quiet one was the worst one. How can that be?
"To hit your own daughter…" I start, but stop myself.
I shouldn't say it. The words are pure — the kind Jesus taught me. But part of me wants to say them so she will hurt as bad as me. The part that was born from the sting of my mother's betrayal, which still burns my face.
I draw in a deep breath.
“I forgive you,” I say sharply.
Three simple words.
Subtly, she lifts her chin, defiant. But I see it. Her chin quivers. Just for a second. It stabbed her.
