I forgave her before she earned it, because I'd been forgiven the same way.

I hadn't spoken to my mother in two years. I rehearsed being right every single night.

In a sermon I only half-wanted to hear, about a father running down a road.

We talk on Sundays now. It's not perfect. It's real.

Forgiveness isn't saying it was okay. It's setting down a rock you were never meant to carry.