“I didn’t know how to apologize without making it sound like I expected forgiveness.”
I thought about that.
“That’s because an apology and forgiveness are different things.”
“I know that now.”
There was that phrase again.
Now.
So much of adulthood seemed to consist of learning things after they would have been most useful.
I set the box on a garden bench.
“Dad, I need you to understand something.”
He nodded.
“I can understand why you were afraid.”
His shoulders shifted slightly.
“I can understand Grandpa choosing for you, your grandmother dying, you giving up medicine, and then watching me choose a version of that life you associated with everything you lost.”
He looked at me.
“But understanding it doesn’t make what you did okay.”
“I know.”
“You erased me from the foundation.”
“Yes.”
“You told Brandon I wanted nothing to do with the family.”
“Yes.”
“You let ten years pass.”
His voice grew quieter.
“Yes.”
I folded my arms.
“I’m not ready to pretend none of that matters.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Good.”
We stood there among Grandpa’s disappointing tomatoes.
Then Dad said, “What are you asking?”
That was new.
Not telling me what should happen.
Asking.
“I don’t know yet.”
He nodded.
And for once, he didn’t fill the silence.
Finally I said, “Coffee.”
He looked confused.
“What?”
“We could start with coffee.”
“When?”
“Next week.”
“You’ll still be here?”
“I have leave through Thursday.”
His face changed.
Hope is surprisingly easy to recognize when someone has spent years hiding it.
“Tuesday?”
“Tuesday.”
“Ten?”
“Eleven.”
He almost argued.
Then stopped.
“Eleven.”
I smiled.
