Dear Parent,
Some days I think I have forgiven you. Then something small happens, a smell, a voice, a phrase, and I am eight years old again, trying not to cry while you look at me like I am the problem.
You were not a bad person. You just did not know how much your words could hurt. You carried your own pain, and sometimes you placed it on me without meaning to. I understand that now, but understanding does not make it hurt less.
I grew up trying to earn the softness you rarely gave. I did everything right. I tried to be easy to love, quiet, helpful, never in the way. Yet no matter how much I gave, it was never enough to make you see me differently.
You taught me to survive, not to rest. To fix, not to feel. And I learned those lessons too well.
Forgiveness is strange. People talk about it as if it is a single moment, a doorway you walk through once. For me, it feels more like a long hallway. Some days I take a few steps forward. Other days I am right back at the start, still holding memories that refuse to loosen their grip.
I do not want revenge. I do not even need an apology anymore. I just want peace. I want to stop needing you to understand. I want to stop measuring my healing against your absence.
Maybe one day I will reach that place completely. For now, I am somewhere in between, hurting, healing, and still trying to forgive you in small, quiet ways.
Your child.