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Trials Of Forgiveness

a son's internal struggle & a fathers guilt

By Olivia RobinsonPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
3
Trials Of Forgiveness
Photo by Mario Dobelmann on Unsplash

I had every right to decline. The roads were icy, and I was drowning in work. But, those reasons aside, I hadn’t seen or spoken to John in almost fifteen years.

I never answered unknown calls. So perhaps he caught me in a good mood because I decided to pick up when my phone rang the previous Monday “Hello?” There was a pause.

“Matt? It’s John… Your father.” At that moment, I wished it had been a spam call. “Your mom gave me your number, and I—“ He spoke through deep sighs and choked words. I knew what was going to follow. Every part of me wanted to feign ignorance, but somehow I found myself agreeing to meet the following Sunday.

I drove down the long stretch of road separating the city from the country, and the urge to turn around nagged at me more than once. I thought about my Mother. How she packed the car to its brim when we left all those years ago. She hugged me tight and told me that everything would be okay through bouts of tears, but I knew that was less for me and more for her. We stayed with her friend for a few weeks in the town next door, then we settled into a place of our own, and it quickly became home. She began to smile more in the days that followed. Money was often tight at first, but we laughed and made up games; everything was different. The gloomy cloud that once followed had lifted; she was a brand new person. Though the absence of my Father had felt strange at first, the happiness she now wore had a way of filling that space.

Despite my Mothers best efforts, her face would still sour whenever there was any mention of my Father. In the beginning, he would pick me up at the same time every Friday. My mother would kiss me on my head and pull me into her arms for what felt like hours. She’d wave and air-kiss me goodbye as I climbed into my Fathers truck, never leaving the comfort of our porch. Whether out of fear or embarrassment, he never dared to turn an eye in her direction, and with that, we began the trek back to the home I once knew.

I always looked forward to weekends spent with John. My Mother and I had fun together, but I often found myself craving the sort of things that Father and Son do, though I wouldn’t even think to repeat that to her. Plus, she hated the smell of fish, and the ponds in the city were always bustling with people and overrun by geese. A simplicity came with the time spent at John’s; what you saw was what you got. A variation of sandwiches for lunch followed by an early rise for a day of fishing in the pond outback. In between, we would throw a ball back and forth, talk, though I did most of the talking while he listened, or I’d pass him tools as he fixed whatever contraption he had that week.

But as I grew, so too did the distance. Weeks turned into months; months turned into years, so on and so forth. My mother knew I was not too fond of baseball, but still, I asked to play every year. “Did you see him?” I would ask her, red-cheeked with a boyish hope, even though I knew the answer. I watched as my mother’s face contorted from discontentment into pity, and eventually, I stopped looking. Once I’d accepted the bitter, hard-to-swallow truth, my Dad became John, and I never spoke of him again.

I turned down the final stretch of dirt road leading up to the house, grateful for the lack of ice. Crunching up the gravel driveway, I shifted the car to park and shook any notion of expectation from my head before exiting. He must have heard the sound of my tires against the rocks because as I looked up, I saw him standing at the front door. I wanted to turn around and drive away, but my legs found the motions and kept moving forward. Closer now, I could see that his face had grown tired, and he stood slightly hunched now.

“I can’t believe it’s you, Matt!” I don’t know what I expected, exactly. Maybe I was picturing the man from my childhood or perhaps nothing at all, but as he stood there, all I saw was a time-worn man. “Well, come inside and out of the cold. I’m glad you decided to come.” He said as he motioned me into the house. It looked different than I remembered, but it still smelled the same. I scanned the living room, and that’s when I noticed the recliner in the corner. He had bought it after my mom left, and it’s where I imagined him most of the time. It was cracked and worn but undeniably the same chair.

“Coffee?”

“Sure, thanks.” I followed him to the kitchen. It seemed smaller now, but so was I the last time I was here. I walked over to the table situated by the window that looked outback. It was the same table we always had. It had been reduced down to raw wood with spots of a darker finish, but it was still recognizable. I sat in the chair closest to the window, pulling the blinds up enough to peer out into the back.

“Any cream or sugar?” He said, placing a cup in front of me.

“No thanks, I like it black.”

“We have that in common.” He responded, moving to the seat across from me. The steam from the coffee swirled away from our cups, filling the air along with the silence.

“Do you still fish?” I was not too fond of small talk, but someone had to speak.

“Ah, not so much these days.” He said, letting out a sigh. “I’d like to, but the cold sinks into my bones now, and it’s a lot of work without a partner.” His eyes flashed to mine for a second, then back down again. “But I still have all the stuff…” He trailed off, “So, uh, what are you up to these days? Are you still writing?” The question shocked me, but it confirmed that he and my mother had talked about me in the past.

“Not so much these days,” which was a slight exaggeration from the truth. I hadn’t actually written in years unless you count code. “I switched majors about six months into school,” I confessed. “Computer science is like writing, and it guarantees more security than a creative writing degree.”

“I never did know that much about computers,” he said with a breathy chuckle. “Shame about your writing though, your mother said you have a natural talent for it.” The sentiment caught me off guard for more reasons than one. First, John was no man of the arts, that much I knew, and I didn’t think he ever sat behind a desk. Instead, he had always worked with his hands and encouraged me to do the same.

“Yeah, well, talent alone doesn’t pay the bills.” The words came out more sarcastically than I intended. It went on this way for a while, and it was clear that both of us were searching for things to say. “John? Why did you ask me to meet?” This time I met his gaze and held it. “You can’t just decide to leave and walk back in as if the last fifteen years were just a fugue state.” I was beginning to sound pitiful, but I couldn’t take it back now. “Why now?” My face felt hot now, and I tried to bring myself back to composure.

“There isn’t anything I can say to change the past,” He started to say. “I wasn’t good at bien’ a dad, and I didn’t wanna hurt you like I hurt your mom… but I realize that I did that anyway.”

“I didn’t need you to be good. I just needed you to be there.” I said back.

“I know I wasn’t there when it mattered most, but I asked you here because I’d like to be there now if you let me.”

Never in my life had I expected this day to come, but I always thought that if it did, then I’d say nothing at all or at least let him have it. I felt like I should’ve been angrier, but as we continued talking, it became clear that he was only a person who had his own demons that were separate from my mom and me. And he was right; the past couldn’t be changed, and whether or not we had a future together was entirely dependent on me.

The conversation eventually turned lighter. We traded stories and even shared a laugh occasionally. It couldn’t be repaired in a single day, and I still worried about the wounded boy that dwelled within me.

“If you’re free in a few weeks, maybe I’ll bring my pole with me so we can check out the pond.”

“I would like that a lot.”

And with that, we exchanged goodbyes, and I agreed to another Sunday together.

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That night I lay in bed as the feelings I previously had rewired themselves in my head. Like ripping out the final pages of a book, so much had begun to make sense as those pages were returned. My father’s absence hadn’t changed much, or so I thought. It wasn’t until this moment, 15 years later, that I became aware of the pit in the bottom of my chest.

Unable to sleep, I made my way to the corner of my room that I regarded as the graveyard. A chair piled with clothes claimed by the cat in the corner, and my old writing desk sat next to it. Years of avoidance left it swallowed whole in forgotten mail and whatever else lacked a designated place. I shuffled through the stack of junk, clearing a small space, and settled into the wobbly, worn chair. The top drawer was still missing a knob, even though I always planned to screw it back on. I grabbed an old journal of mine, turning to a new page for the first time in a long while.

‘The seasons come and go, whether we want them to or not. Despite the Earth’s consistent rotation, sometimes you’ll find the heat of the summer or the harshness of winter clinging to the months like that of a small child. Fists balled, heels dug into the mud, begging to stay just a little longer as if to stake its claim further into the dirt. But the sun will always rise, and the leaves will inevitably fall. The ice will begin to melt, and the birds will sing again. A new day will come, and you’ll make a pot of coffee, but instead of reading at the table like you did all winter, you’ll move to the porch outback. As you savor the fresh spring air, you’ll see that the ducks have returned to the once frozen pond left inhabitable by winter, and everything will be born anew. The seasons aren’t afraid of change, and that’s what makes them beautiful. Perhaps people are not much different than the weather. And like the frozen pond, maybe I too can let the warmth thaw the ice that surrounds my heart.’

Short Story
3

About the Creator

Olivia Robinson

too little to say, too much time

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