I wasn’t sure I was ready to forgive him.
Then, about a month later, my phone rang. It was my mom. Her voice was calm, but I could hear the urgency beneath it.
“Please, come now,” she said softly. “Your dad has been feeling anxious since that night. He wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know how to make it right.”
I froze. Part of me wanted to hang up, to shield myself from more disappointment. But another part—the part that still longed for my father’s love—wanted to believe her.
