“I thought you were strong enough to survive being treated unfairly, so I never considered how much it was hurting you.”
I read that sentence twice.
It explained so much.
My parents had mistaken my ability to survive their behavior for permission to continue it.
Because I worked hard, they assumed I didn’t need help.
Because I rarely asked for anything, they assumed I deserved nothing.
Because I kept rebuilding my life, they assumed they could keep knocking it down.
I folded the letter and placed it in a drawer.
I didn’t respond.
Maybe one day I would.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
For the first time, that decision belonged entirely to me.
On the anniversary of the day my father struck me, I stood in the living room and looked at the bookcase.
I had repaired the damaged shelf months earlier. Owen’s photograph stood in its original place, this time inside a new frame he had chosen himself.
