When I was seventeen, my family moved two states away without telling me. They left a note that said, “You’ll figure it out.” Twelve years later, after I finally built a life on my own, they reached out to reconnect.

She told me they had moved to New Mexico because of debts, that things had become complicated, that they believed I was strong enough to manage alone. “We knew you’d survive,” she said softly, as if that made everything better.

Twelve years of silence, and this was the reason she gave.

When I asked why she was contacting me now, her voice wavered. She said my father was sick with heart failure and that he wanted to see me before it was too late.

That night I sat on my balcony, watching the city lights blink against the dark, and thought about what forgiveness really means. Part of me wanted to go, to ask him why. The other part wanted to stay silent forever.