At 17, my dad abandoned my mom and me for a younger woman, draining our savings and leaving us homeless. Years later, I spotted him—unkempt and volunteering at a deli food drive, a shadow of his former ambitious self. Recognizing me, he whispered, “Malorie,” but I walked away, stunned by karma’s hand. Curiosity drew me back, and he confessed his affair, ruin, and homeless years, seeking no forgiveness, only truth. I wrote him a letter,
detailing every scar he caused. His reply promised change, not redemption. We began cautious, honest talks, and even my mom found some peace in his efforts. He still volunteers, quietly rebuilding. Forgiveness remains uncertain, but I’ve found peace, seeing justice in his struggle to become human again.
