At My Purple Heart Ceremony, My Stepmother Swung a Folding Chair Into My Arm—Then My Father Looked Down Instead of Protecting Me

No final word.

No victory pose.

Just a room becoming a room again.

PART 7 — CHARLES

My father asked me once:

“What would forgiveness look like?”

We were sitting at a coffee shop almost a year after the assault.

I hated the question.

“Why?”

“I don’t know what I’m working toward.”