On the morning the demolition crew arrived to remove the remains of the bait shop, my father came to the site.
I had not invited him, but I did not ask him to leave.
We stood on opposite sides of the temporary fence for a while.
“Your grandmother would have liked this,” he said.
I looked toward the ocean.
“I think so.”
He nodded.
Then he said, “I should have called you.”
It was the first apology he had given me that contained no explanation after it.
No mention of my mother’s pressure.
No reference to Clare’s crisis.
No request that I understand how difficult things had been for him.
Just the truth.
I should have called you.
“Yes,” I said.
“You should have.”
That was all.
Forgiveness, I learned, was not the same as restoration.
I could stop carrying rage without handing someone back the access they had abused.
My relationship with my father remained careful.
Clare and I became distant.
