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

Maybe she changed.

Maybe she still hated me.

I don’t know.

That ignorance is peaceful.

People sometimes ask whether I forgive her.

I rarely answer.

Forgiveness is too often treated as the required final stage of surviving abuse.

As though the person harmed remains unfinished until she produces compassion on schedule.