“Hating yourself won’t help,” I said. “Change will.”
He nodded slowly. “I want to be better. I just… don’t know how.”
“Start honest,” I said. “We’ll find help—therapy, boundaries, real responsibility. But you have to choose it too.”
He glanced at the papers again. “So you’re still giving everything away?”
“Yes,” I said softly. “Because my legacy should be compassion—not fear.”
He exhaled. “Okay.”
It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet. But it was a beginning.
As we cleaned the table, he whispered, “Thank you… for not giving up on me.”
And I knew I wasn’t just fighting for myself.
I was fighting for the chance that he could still become the man I always hoped he’d be.
