“That wasn’t your burden, but I put it on you anyway… even though I didn’t fully know the truth myself. Your father wasn’t perfect, but he also wasn’t what I made him out to be, either… and that’s something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”
I looked away, grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.
All that anger I held onto all those years suddenly didn’t feel as solid as it once did.
Could I really be mad at her for not knowing what she didn’t know?
For reacting out of hurt?
Because if I were being honest with myself, if the father of my child suddenly disappeared, stopped providing, and stopped being present, I would likely have jumped to similar conclusions.
Silence stretched between us.
Then she spoke more softly.“Ajori, I’m not asking you to excuse me… or even to fully comprehend my actions. I just don’t want you to hate me.”
That word lingered.
Hate.
“You just lost your father,” she continued gently. “Grief has a unique way of either hardening a person or softening them. I don’t want to stand before a version of you that has become hardened by all this pain.”
That was true.
Pain will either build a wall or break one down, and which one you choose changes everything.
I exhaled slowly, finding my voice again. “We’re not going to mend years of damage in a single conversation. Trust doesn’t simply return because an apology is offered; it is rebuilt over time when your actions stop contradicting your words.”
“I understand,” she replied quietly, her eyes searching mine for any sign of concession.
“So we’ll take it slow… real slow,” I emphasized, wanting to make my intentions clear.
She nodded quickly. “I’ll take it slow. Slow still means forward.”
I studied her for a second, then told the truth. “And just so you know, I’m mainly doing this because Kyrin asked me to.”
Vanessa’s expression shifted, disappointment flickering across her face for the briefest instant.
Then I included, “But…”
Her eyes came back to mine.
“I also want my mom back… and I’m tired of pretending like I don’t.”
Quiet tears fell like something in her finally cracked open.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “And I’m not leaving this time.”
I nodded.
Belief was still building. But effort? I could see that. And sometimes that’s where healing starts.
Vanessa wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand, taking a moment to compose herself.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, letting out a soft, shaky sniffle, “but I am absolutely starving.”
To my own surprise, a light chuckle escaped my lips.
“What?” she shrugged. “Grief doesn’t cancel hunger; if anything, it reminds you you’re still alive.”
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, our conversation felt different. Talking to her didn’t feel like something I had to survive; it felt like something I could grow from.
