A lifetime of mistakes hidden inside two words.
I looked at him.
Then at the water.
Then back again.
“You should be.”
He nodded.
Tears running freely now.
“I don’t expect forgiveness.”
“Good.”
The honesty seemed to surprise him.
Because some wounds heal.
And some simply become scars.
The difference is learning to live with both.
Then I turned and walked away.
Not angry.
Not bitter.
Just finished.
Behind me, my father remained standing alone.
Ahead of me, twenty-three families waited near the harbor.
Laughing.
Talking.
Living.
People who existed because, years earlier, I had walked back into a burning building when everyone else was running out.
Vanessa called after me once.
“Emily.”
I turned.
She looked down at the sand.
“I’m sorry too.”
For the first time in years, I believed she meant it.
I smiled faintly.
Then continued walking.
Toward the people whose lives had intertwined with mine through fire, pain, and survival.
The scars on my back were still there.
They always would be.
But they no longer felt like evidence of what had been taken from me.
