My son looked at him—not with hatred, but with the calm strength of someone who had already survived more than an eighteen-year-old should.
“You can apologize to her,” he said. “Not to me.”
Then he turned and walked back to the car.
I felt my breath catch as he opened the door and sat beside me. His hand gently found mine.
“Mom,” he said, “you don’t need him. But if you want… you can forgive him. For yourself.”
