“You questioned him when it mattered.”
“I wish I had done it before.”
“So do I.”
She nodded.
Then she asked the question I had heard so many times from other people.
“Do you think you’ll ever forgive them?”
I watched the little girl crawl across the grass.
“I don’t know.”
And that was the most honest answer I had.
I no longer believed forgiveness was something other people could demand from me.
I didn’t owe forgiveness because we shared DNA.
I didn’t owe reconciliation because someone was sorry.
And I didn’t owe access to my life because someone had once been part of it.
Maybe someday I would forgive Dad.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
Either way, I could still move forward.
A year after the incident, I bought another vehicle.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing flashy.
Just something practical.
When the salesman handed me the keys, he said, “Congratulations.”
I smiled.
“Thank you.”
I placed the keys in my palm.
Two identical keys.
Both mine.
I stood there for a moment, remembering the night Dad had taken the spare key from my house.
Back then, I had felt powerless.
Now I realized something.
He had never taken my power.
He had only shown me where I had been giving it away.
I drove home alone.
