Some days, no.
Some days, all I feel is what he wrote in that letter.
He didn't run from what he did.
Other days, I remember his rough hands under my shoulders, his awful braids, his
"you are no less"
speeches, and I think I've forgiven him in bits and pieces over the years.
What I do know is this:
He didn't run from what he did.
He spent the rest of his life facing it, one nighttime alarm, one phone call, one wash of his hair in the sink at a time.
He couldn't undo the accident. But he gave me love, stability, and now a door.
Maybe I'll roll through that door. Maybe one day I'll walk.
Either way, he carried me as far as he could.
I think I've forgiven him in bits and pieces over the years.
My uncle raised me after my parents died – until his death revealed the truth he had hidden for years.
