“He didn’t live through what we did.”

“He asked, puzzled, ‘-but how can she build them a life based upon lies?'”

“His upbringing and family life was ideal; of course he can ask and look at it from that angle. His question isn’t unfounded… but he didn’t go through what we went through.  He didn’t live through what we did.”

Our eyes met; I said nothing more. Her answer, heavy from the weight of the truth, left me cold.

Time and again, I wonder, at what point are we freed from our past? At what point, specifically when, in the timeline of a life fully lived, do we forgive the sins of our guardians? At what point will we truly and sincerely, at long last, accept that we are not them – that our lives are not theirs such that history will ironically repeat itself? At what point, precisely, do we stop being defined by our past? Most of all, at what point – when, exactly when? Pray tell – does forgiveness seeps in…

…and stays?

(sometimes I think I’m still angry)



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