These Tangled Vines

by Julianne MacLean

Total forgiveness was not going to be easy. This much I knew. It was going to take some effort, but it was better than the alternative, which would leave me hating my father and resenting him. I couldn’t live like that. I didn’t want to feel anger in my thoughts for the rest of my life. I wanted to wake up in the morning and feel blissful at the sight of the sunrise. I wanted to feel grateful for the kind father who raised me, who had made me feel loved.

“Me too,” he replied. “And you were special. You still are. Because if you can sit here in this house and forgive me for everything that I . . .” “Stop, Dad,” I said gently. “Of course I’m going to forgive you. How can I not? Life is rough for everyone, and it’s complicated. It’s full of hairpin

turns we don’t see coming. You know that better than anyone. You suffered a terrible trauma. And we all make mistakes. Mom certainly wasn’t perfect. She left a fair bit of destruction in her path.” “Yes, but she gave me you.” “And she gave me you.” I realized in that moment that I was going to have to find a way to accept how my life had played out and let go of the frustration and regret about not meeting Anton. This was my reality going forward. What good could come from grappling forever with “could have beens”? Every life was full of “could have beens.” The best we could do was make the most of what was and what had been. At least I finally knew the truth about my mother’s life, and I was no longer lying to my father. There was a tremendous relief in that—in the purging of secrets and the guilt that accompanied them. I felt somehow lighter, as if I had used a shovel to excavate my soul. Dad and I regarded each other in the rays of the early-morning sunlight through the window, and I believed he felt lighter, too—that he was relieved to have let the truth out of its long confinement.

Forgivenessand personal growth .

And though I tried to let go of certain things and live without regret, I was beginning to accept that regret would always be a part of my life. I was only human, after all, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t escape it. What I decided was that I would not let it consume or define me. For the most part, I was at peace with how my life had unfolded, and I would embrace my regret—and my ability to work at forgiveness—as evidence of my humanity. I would wake up each morning and count my blessings.