Chapter 7
Mason turned twelve.
He was a young man now. Tall. Lanky. Good at basketball. Good at school. He had friends. He had a girlfriend — well, a girl he liked. He was — normal. A normal kid. Which, given everything, was a miracle.
He came to me one night. He was quiet. Serious.
"Dad," he said. "I want to write to her. Vanessa. I want to tell her — I want to tell her I forgive her. Not because she deserves it. Because I need to. For me."
I looked at him. This boy. This son I hadn't fathered by blood, but by choice. This boy who'd been braver than any adult I knew.
"Are you sure?" I said.
He nodded. "I've been thinking. For years. She's my mom. She did terrible things. But she's still my mom. And I don't want to carry this anger forever. I want to let it go. Not for her. For me."
I nodded. "Okay. But I'm reading the letter first. And if it's too much — if she writes back something cruel — we stop. Deal?"
"Deal."
He wrote the letter. I read it. It was kind. Firm. Forgiving, but not excusing. He told her what she'd done. How it had hurt him. How it had hurt Lily. And he told her he forgave her. That he hoped she'd get better. That he hoped, someday, she could be the mother he'd wanted.
He sent it.
Three months later, a letter came back. From prison. I opened it first. I read it. It was — apologetic. Sincere. Vanessa wrote that she was getting help. That she was in therapy. That she understood, finally, what she'd done. That she was sorry. That she didn't expect forgiveness. That she just wanted him to know she was trying.
I gave it to Mason. He read it. He cried. Then he smiled.
"She's trying," he said. "That's enough."
He didn't write back. Not yet. But he kept the letter. In his drawer. Next to his basketball trophies. Next to his report cards. Next to the adoption papers.
May you like
He was healing. In his own way. On his own time.
And I was — proud. So proud.
