Forgiveness
On a windy afternoon of an October day a woman
pulled up to a red light next to a man in a white pick-up truck. The woman is
my mother. When she looked to her left she realized that she recognized the
man, and rolled down her window. When he noticed her he rolled down his window
as well. Their conversation was short, but ended in the decision to pull off of
the road, into a parking lot down the street. “This is my friend, Joe,” my
mother introduced him to me, opening the door of the car so that I could see
the man from my place in my car seat. “Hi, Joe,” I’d greeted him, kicking my
little feet in his general direction. Unknown to me at the time, the man is my
father. A man that I have asked my mother about numerous times; questions like,
“If all the other boys and girls have daddies, why don’t I?” to which my mother
would always respond, “You have a Daddy and he loves you very much, like I do.
He just isn’t ready to be a Daddy yet.” A man that I did not long for, as my
mother gave me all of the love and affection that I needed, but that I did not
understand why I did not know who he is. The very man who allowed two whole
years to pass before he decided that he was ready to be my father.
At
six years old I decided to forgive my father for coming into my life late, but
this particular act has haunted me several times throughout my life. Sometimes
I feel as though it should not bother me. Since I was born my mother has always
been capable of fulfilling both my father’s role and her own in my life. Other
times, though, bitterness erodes my heart. How could someone abandon their
child? With age, the idea that my mother presented to me, of a man who was not
ready to be a father, changed into one of a man who blatantly did not want his
child. I still struggle with this bitterness, at times convincing myself that I
do not want him and that he does not even deserve to have me in his life. In
this I have learned that forgiveness is not easily given, and that until it is
permanent, it is not true.
