Sitting on that familiar couch, holding my hand in his, he took responsibility for my hurt. He acknowledged his absence and his shortcomings. He named my deepest pain, cutting at the root of the poison.
Tears carelessly careened down my cheeks.
I was overwhelmed.
Healing like this was hard to fathom and difficult to accept. Wounds, that have haunted me for years, picked themselves up and made their way towards the exit sign.
Each time I looked at him, I broke into deep wrenching sobs. So I stopped looking at him.
I reminded myself to remain present in the moment – to not let my mind wander. This was important. Huge, in fact. I’d waited years to hear these words come out of his mouth.
To say it was beautiful would be an understatement. Healing. Freeing. Heart-breaking. Draining. Comforting. Blessing.
Father’s are a tricky subject at the best of times. I know few people who have had wonderful relationships with their fathers. Most people that I encounter have had to climb mountains or cross oceans in search of a meaningful relationship with their father. Thus, this longing for closeness with one’s father becomes a large part of a person’s identity, and often acts as a bothersome reminder of hidden war wounds and battle scars.
That night, I received a beautiful, heart-breaking gift: my father, humbling himself before me and taking ownership over some my deepest hurts.
It was a giant band-aid and a bucket full of tears. It was a scene that I’ll never forget.