That was new.
Not therapy language entirely.
His.
Then:
“I don't expect anything.”
“Good.”
He almost smiled.
“I knew you'd say that.”
“Then why ask to meet?”
“Because I wanted to tell you I finally understand the house.”
I frowned.
“What about it?”
“You didn't take my house.”
His voice broke.
“I never had one.”
Silence.
He continued.
“You gave me a place to live.”
“I treated permission like ownership.”
“And when you reminded me…”
He started crying.
“I hurt you because reality humiliated me.”
I looked at my son.
Thirty-three years old now.
For the first time, I saw neither the little boy I wanted back nor the adult who hit me.
Just a man sitting inside the consequences of himself.
“Do you want forgiveness?”
I asked.
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Why not?”
“Because I used to want forgiveness as proof I wasn't really the kind of person who did those things.”
