Two days ago, someone asked me, “Who’s someone you met last year who changed your life?”
And I surprised myselves when I said: my father.
My father, who was never really there. My father, whose absence shaped the architecture of my need. My father, who, in the final three months of his life, chose to show up. Chose to try. Chose to say sorry. And no, sorry doesn’t undo decades of silence, doesn’t un-bruise the ache of being a child who kept waiting. But sorry—when spoken from a body that means it—can soften 32 years of wondering.
Because answers, even the painful ones, soothe.
It’s the questions that rot you from the inside out.
