Chapter 24 - LEONARD FORGIVES ME SOMEWHAT
Leonard and I fought for years.
Not constantly.
In layers.
First:
The affidavit.
Then:
Why I let Veronica handle Amelia’s memorial.
Then:
Why I never called the facility myself.
Then childhood.
“You always trusted her more.”
“I trusted her differently.”
“That’s what parents say when differently means more.”
Sometimes he was unfair.
Sometimes not.
Therapy sessions helped.
I admitted:
“Veronica made me feel safe because she rarely needed me.”
Leonard said:
“I needed you too much?”
“No. You made me feel helpless.”
He looked at me.
“That was my crime?”
“No. It was my fear.”
There.
I had rewarded the child who made motherhood look successful.
Punished the child who exposed limits.
Not consciously.
Still.
Leonard admitted:
“I used to create emergencies because Dad paid attention when I did something dangerous.”
We laughed sadly.
Family systems do not excuse crimes.
They explain why certain buttons existed for criminals to press.
At seventy-eight, I asked:
“Do you forgive me?”
Leonard said:
“For what?”
“Signing.”
“Yes.”
“Believing Veronica?”
“Mostly.”
“Not opening Amelia’s grave?”
“It wasn’t your job.”
“Not reading?”
He looked at me.
“That one annoys me.”
Fair.
“Everything?”
“No.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
He smiled.
“You’re weird.”
“I’m old.”
May you like
“Same.”
Some relationships do not need complete forgiveness to become loving again.
