Page 115 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Being with you, near you, around you, in whatever way you’ll have me, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been completely sure about.”
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. Caitlin’s eyes soften, and she takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself for something difficult.
“I have something I need to tell you,” she says.
My heart stutters, anxiety instantly flooding my system. “Okay,” I manage, bracing myself.
“I forgive you.”
Three simple words, yet they hit me with the force of a physical blow. I stare at her, certain I’ve misheard.
“What?”
“I forgive you, Adam.” Her voice is steady, her eyes clear and direct. “For Mount Pella. For Millie. For the cruise. For all the times you put her needs above mine. For all of it.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process the enormity of what she’s saying.
“Caitlin, I—” My voice breaks, and I have to stop, swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She reaches up, her palm warm against my cheek. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past weeks. About what happened, about why it happened. About how much of it was your fault and how much was circumstance and conditioning.”
I shake my head slightly, not wanting her to make excuses for me. “I made those choices. I hurt you.”
“Yes, you did,” she agrees. “But I also understand now how difficult those choices were for you. How much pressure you were under. How your mother manipulated you.” Her thumb brushes my cheekbone gently. “Aunt Charlene helped me see that what your mother did to you was a form of abuse. Not physical, but emotional. She conditioned you to put Millie’s needs above your own, to feel responsible for her happiness.That’s not normal or healthy, Adam. And breaking free from that kind of conditioning isn’t easy.”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by her understanding, by the gift of her forgiveness that I never expected and certainly don’t deserve.
“That doesn’t mean what happened was okay,” she continues. “It wasn’t. It hurt me deeply. But I can forgive you for it, and I do.”
When I open my eyes again, they’re wet. I don’t try to hide it. “Thank you,” I whisper, the words hopelessly inadequate but all I have to offer. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m grateful for it. So grateful.”
Caitlin’s expression softens further, but there’s still a hint of caution in her eyes. “I need you to understand something else, though. Forgiving you doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump right back into a relationship. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to trust you with my heart again. Not yet.”
I nod quickly, not wanting her to think I’m assuming anything. “Of course. I understand.”
“But,” she adds, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “I want to work towards it. Towards trusting you again. Towards us.”
The words send a wave of joy through me so intense it’s almost painful. I reach for her hand, bringing it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I will spend every day proving to you that your trust isn’t misplaced,” I promise. “However long it takes, whatever you need from me. I’m here.”
“I know you are.” Her smile widens, real and warm. “That’s why I’m here too.”
In this hotel room in Mount Pella, the town where everything fell apart, we’re finding a way to begin putting it back together. Not perfectly, not all at once, but piece by piece. And for the firsttime in months, I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, we have a future after all.
42
Chapter 42
Adam
I’ve been sitting by my dad’s hospital bed all day, mostly just watching him sleep. He has had a few periods of awakeness, during which we’ve been able to talk. His face looks less gray today, some color returning to his cheeks. I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, each breath a small victory. The doctors say he’s improving, that the surgery was successful, but still, seeing him so diminished has shaken me to my core. I reach out and place my hand over his.
There’s so much I want to say to him, so many conversations we never had. I’ve been so angry with him for his passivity, for standing by while my mother shaped our family into her vision, regardless of what it cost the rest of us. But now, faced with the possibility of losing him, that anger feels hollow.
His eyelids flutter, then open. Recognition dawns in his gaze as it settles on me.
“Adam,” he says, his voice scratchy and weak. “Still here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him, squeezing his hand gently.
