His letter did not ask me to pretend otherwise.

He asked only for forgiveness, which is not the same as pretending the wound away.

And I found, sitting in his armchair under his wool blanket, that I could give it.

Not because he had earned it, but because I did not want to carry the weight of not giving it into whatever years I had left.

Because here is the truth I arrived at, watching the sun go down over the city from the balcony of the suite my father left me.

He had been a terrible father for forty-five years.