He had also moved into a separate apartment while he decided what his marriage could become.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me because I brought a box,” he said.

“I wanted you to have it regardless.”

I told him he could write to me but should not come to the cabin without asking.

He accepted the boundary.

When we stood to leave, he did not reach for a hug.

I was grateful for that too.

Driving home, I thought about how strange it was to want two contradictory things: for my father to suffer enough to understand what he had done, and for him to become someone I could safely love again.