Chapter 26 - Dad asks for the crutch
The original crutch became police evidence briefly.
Then was returned to me.
I used a different one after the party because I could not stand looking at it.
Eventually my ankle healed.
The crutch sat in my storage closet.
Three years later, Dad asked:
“Do you still have it?”
We were sitting in a therapist’s office.
I knew what he meant.
“Yes.”
“I think about it.”
“So do I.”
He swallowed.
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
He nodded.
Good answer to no.
That was the test.
Not whether I someday handed him the object.
Whether he could hear refusal without turning it into negotiation.
Then he said:
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Do you forgive me?”
I thought.
“Some days.”
His eyes filled.
I continued:
“I don’t think forgiveness is one switch.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to ask me every month whether it changed.”
“I understand.”
May you like
And he did not ask again.
That mattered more than the question.
