Surprise!

I ran errands during my lunch hour, and my final stop was the post office to collect the mail. In it was an envelope with handwriting I recognized, even though I had not seen it in 20 years. After the scene between Dad and Tess, I had expected a letter from him, not the step-monster. An unkind thought percolated up, that he had sunk to new levels of cowardice if he was having D. write me. There in the lobby I opened the letter and read the first line: Dear Kelly, I am writing to tell you I am so sorry for any part I played in your life that was hurtful and harmed you. My heart lurched and I started shaking. I put it back in the envelope and headed back to work. I tried to breathe, keep my mind blank, but a memory surfaced anyway, the memory of what happened the night before I left home. I kept banishing it. It kept bobbing up, with other memories attached. I don't need this shit, I thought, and seriously considered tossing the letter in the shredder, unread. But I also recognized that, even 20+ years late, it was an apology, and I should read it and respond with grace.

So I sat in the truck and told myself to read it now, rather than wait. Was it worse to be haunted by the known, or the unknown? The answer was that the unknown would haunt me for certain, but the known might lay ghosts to rest. So I read it. Short. Sincere. Excuses previously offered were recanted. No asking for forgiveness. An acknowledgement of wrongs, and an apology. And then her post-script mentioned that night. She said the memory of it makes her cry. It should. It should. My blood and fear and my father's rage. I wanted to live. I made it to the door but he pinned me before I could open it. It makes me shake and want to cry. I used to love her, but I killed the love that night and never regretted it. I could not afford to love her anymore. And because of her I left. I left Tess behind, unprotected. And Tess was in the hospital not 3 months later. Damned memories. Damn, damn, damn.

Time to pull it together, lunch break is over, show's on. Smiles, everyone, smiles. I walked into the office and sat at my desk. I knew Steph would know something was wrong, so I handed her the letter, then sat back down. A couple of minutes later, she brought it back. She knew better than to say much, so all she said was "Its about time."

Compassion. How can I feel compassion for D? But it is there. Her daughter has lung cancer, her parents died two years ago after prolonged illness. Compassion because neither of her children have amounted to anything: they are unhappy, clingy, weak women just like she is. Compassion for what she must suffer, knowing what she did, what she was responsible for. Tammy, Tess and I are flawed, outrageous, courageous, compelling people. I suppose she had a hand in that, the good and bad.

My life is what I have made it, I tell myself. As a child, patterns were set that affected my inner- and outer- world views, and have continued to do so into my adult life. But children become adults, and as adults, we can alter the patterns from childhood that shape our thoughts. I have. I am. And I will continue to. I am aware that I am the orginator of my thoughts. In knowing myself and being consciously aware of the effects of my thoughts, the realization follows that my circumstances are the effects of inward causes. There are no accidents in my life, for both its harmonies and antipathies are the responsive echoes of my thoughts. I am not a frightened child anymore, I am the master of my own thoughts and attitudes, and thus the master of my circumstances... so I will accept her apology with grace. The law within me demands balance and equity: every impure and selfish thought that I send out comes back to me in my circumstances as some form of suffering, while every pure and unselfish thought returns to me in some form of blessing. Perhaps, one day, forgiveness will come. Regardless, I learned a powerful lesson after mom's death: that in my life, short as it has been so far, I regret most the things I did not do. I cannot, will not, waste grief and regret on D. I don't want to hurt her with words. I don't want to keep her waiting. It must have been such a difficult letter to wrrite. So I will probably mail her her a card with just three words written inside: Apology accepted. Kelly.