At first, my father blamed himself.
“I should never have started dating,” he said.
I sat beside him at the kitchen table.
“No. You should have started living sooner.”
Several months passed before he found the courage to try again.
This time, he was honest with his date about my mother.
He also admitted he was afraid of losing another chance at happiness.
Her name was Jocelyn.
She did not disappear the following morning.
After their third date, my father called me.
Music played softly in the background.
Then I heard him laugh at something Jocelyn had said.
For the first time in twelve years, the house no longer sounded like a place frozen in grief, waiting for someone who would never return.
So here is the real question: When someone destroys every chance your grieving father has to love again in the name of protecting the past, do you forgive the pain behind their actions, or finally accept that honoring the dead should never mean imprisoning the living?
