My father kicked me out of the house when he found out I was pregnant. Eighteen years later, my son came to visit him.

That afternoon I drove to the house I hadn't seen in almost twenty years. The driveway was still cracked, just as I remembered. The porch light still hummed softly, even in the middle of the day.

Liam got out of the car with a small box in his hand. I stayed inside. My palms were clammy on the steering wheel.

He knocked twice.

My father opened the door a few seconds later. From the car, I could see he didn't immediately recognize Liam—how could he? As far as I knew, he'd never seen his grandson before.

But Liam looked like me. And I looked like my father.

I knew it would only take him a few seconds to notice, to actually see who was standing on his porch.

My father looked older and more frail than I remembered, but no less proud. He was no less distant.

Liam handed over the box.

"Here," he said calmly. "You can celebrate my birthday with this."

My father looked confused, but he took the box and squinted as he studied Liam's face. I saw a spark of surprise in his eyes when he realized he was looking at his grandson.

It appeared quickly, suddenly, and unpredictably… and vanished just as quickly, swallowed up by the cold, stoic expression I'd always known of hers.

"I forgive you," Liam continued. "For what you did to me. And my mother."

My father's face didn't change. He said nothing.