At 16, I lent my mom my car for a weekend getaway. She returned it spotless, but the glove box was rummaged through. She found a photo of me and Dad, taken weeks before our family fell apart. Shocked, she admitted trying to burn all traces of him after their divorce, erasing his existence from our home. I confronted her, holding the creased photo of Dad and me at the lake. She revealed his years of infidelity, explaining her silence was to protect my memories. A letter from Mara, Dad’s last partner, arrived, claiming he loved me despite his regrets.
Photos and letters revealed his final days in hospice, full of remorse. Mom and I struggled with the truth. I met Mara, who shared Dad’s messy but genuine love. His journal, filled with regret and affection, bridged some gaps. Mom read it, and we began to heal, embracing our imperfect truths. The photo now sits framed beside one of Mom and me, a testament to finding love amid brokenness. Healing starts with facing the truth, however painful, and holding space for the good and the flawed.
