Forgiveness

I have spent years running from my past, burying the guilt of abandoning my daughter, Chisom, when she needed me most. Life has a way of pushing us into difficult decisions, but nothing could prepare me for the pain of losing the bond we once shared. I thought that by staying away, I was protecting her from the chaos of my life, but in reality, I only pushed her further away. The ache of not being there for her has haunted me every day, and the weight of my mistakes is a burden I carry quietly, hoping for a chance at redemption.

I was certain that time had made the gap between us too wide to bridge, and that the years of silence had created wounds too deep to heal. When Chisom and I finally crossed paths again after all these years, I wasn't sure if there was even a glimmer of hope left for us. I saw the pain in her eyes, the resentment that simmered beneath the surface, and I couldn't blame her. I had been absent in her life, and no amount of words could undo that. Yet, despite all the hurt, I saw something in her-a flicker of curiosity, a willingness to understand. It was this small thread of hope that kept me coming back, trying to rebuild what had been broken.

I know that forgiveness doesn't come easily, and that it isn't something you can force. I understood that Chisom's journey of healing would take time, and that my attempts to fix the past would feel inadequate. I was prepared for the harsh truths she would reveal, for the anger and betrayal she might still carry. I had to be patient, giving her space to process and decide for herself whether or not she was ready to forgive. But even as I braced myself for the worst, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of optimism. The fact that she was willing to meet me again was a sign-a sign that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for us.

I am learning that forgiveness is not a one-sided gift. It is a process of mutual understanding and vulnerability, and it requires more than just saying sorry. It's about showing up consistently, offering my truth, and allowing her to share hers. As we sat down to dinner for the first time in years, I felt both anxious and hopeful. The conversation was bound to be difficult, but it was also necessary. I was ready to face the hard questions, to explain myself, and most importantly, to listen to her pain. This dinner was more than just a meal-it was the first step toward rebuilding a bridge that had long since collapsed.