“I do,” she says with a sorrowful nod.
Closing the distance between us, I wrap my arms around the woman who let me stay with her rent-free as I pieced myself back together.
“Thank you,” I say, “for all that you’ve done for me.”
Tears fall from her amber-brown eyes. “I wish you luck, Monroe, for whatever it is you have planned and wherever it is you’re going.”
I offer her a grim smile as I open the car door.
“Monroe,” my aunt calls, turning around. “Forgiveness can be a powerful thing.”
I chew on her departing words as I debate how to respond. She means well, so I don’t want to hurt her feelings with a flippant response, but sometimes forgiveness is not the magic healing potion people believe it to be. Sometimes, forgiveness is a goddamn farce.
“It is,” I agree as I climb into the car. “But so is death.”
TO BE CONTINUED