A woman who had helped build something meaningful.
Oliver and Owen grew older.
They continued seeing their father.
Some visits were good.
Others were difficult.
Julian gradually learned to separate his anger toward me from his responsibilities as a parent.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it improved.
I encouraged the boys to form their own relationships with him.
I never asked them to choose sides.
And I never used them to carry messages between us.
One evening, Owen asked me:
“Mom, are you still mad at Dad?”
I thought for a moment.
Then answered:
“Sometimes.”
He nodded.
“Do you hate him?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He looked relieved.
I smiled gently.
“People can hurt us deeply, and we can still choose not to hate them.”
He thought about that.
Then asked:
“Does that mean you have to forgive them?”
I took a breath.
“Forgiveness is personal.”
I looked at him.
