I Forgave My Father

He wasn't there for my birth. Or my first steps. Or my graduation. He showed up thirty years later, sitting in his car outside my office, looking old and tired. 'I'm not asking for anything,' he said. 'I just wanted to see you.' Something in me broke open. We went for coffee. He told me about his own father, who was worse. About the shame that kept him away. I didn't forgive him that day. But I started to. Forgiveness, I've learned, isn't a single act. It's a decision you make over and over, until one day it doesn't hurt anymore.