Chapter 7 - Healing Old Wounds
For the next two hours, my father sat at our kitchen table and talked. He didn't defend my mother once. Instead, he listened as Evan and I shared memories of things that had hurt me over the years—things he had missed or chosen to ignore. He took every single story in, nodding slowly, never interrupting to make excuses.
When he finally stood up to leave, the heavy tension that had existed between us for as long as I could remember felt lighter, scrubbed clean by brutal, honest truth.
"I don't expect to be invited to Sunday dinners right away," my father said as we walked him to the front door. "And I know I have a lot of work to do to prove I can be a real father—and a real grandfather. But I wanted you to know where I stand."
I looked down at the floor for a second, then up at him. He looked smaller, older, but somehow lighter too—just like a man shedding a heavy winter coat after years in the snow.
"You can come over next weekend," I said quietly. "For lunch. Just you. No expectations, no pressure."
My father’s eyes brightened, a tear finally spilling over and tracking down his weathered cheek. He nodded, unable to speak, and gently pulled me into a hug. It was the first real, unhurried hug my father had given me since I was a little girl.
"Thank you," he whispered. "I'll see you next week."
As his car pulled away from the curb, I closed the door and leaned back against it, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
Evan walked up, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind and resting his chin on my shoulder. "How do you feel?"
"Exhausted," I said honestly. "And... lighter. Like a window was opened in a room that hasn't had fresh air in decades."
May you like
"He’s trying," Evan said. "People can change, if they're willing to do the hard work."
"Yeah," I smiled, turning around to face him. "Let’s see if he can handle Lily’s crawling speed next week."
