i’m not writing to the man.
that man is dead to me.
this is for the boy.
the child still trapped inside the monster you became.

i forgive you.
not because you deserve it,
but because i know what happened.

i’m sorry life was cruel to you before you had words for it.
i’m sorry no one kept you safe.
i’m sorry the lights went out and no one came.
i’m sorry you wandered the streets as a kid,
looking for a floor that wouldn’t kick you.
i’m sorry you were hungry.
cold.
forgotten.
i’m sorry you weren’t held more.
that your mother left.
that you became hard when what you needed was softness.

i’m sorry for the horrors you definitely saw
and the dreams that died before you even learned to dream.

but here’s the part i’ll never say out loud:
it’s true.
i leave you.
and yes—forever.

not because i stopped loving you.
but because you wouldn’t stop bleeding on me
from wounds you refused to heal.
you stabbed me with the same blade that made you.
and one day, i finally pulled it out
and said:
no more.

you didn’t get out.
i tried to drag you out.
but you wouldn’t come.

so i did what you couldn’t.
i got out.
i took the ghosts and turned them into light.

your granddaughter is safe.
she is warm.
she is fed.
she will never know what we survived.

and that’s the part i want you to know,
somewhere, in whatever broken cathedral your soul still haunts:
you didn’t get to finish the story.
but the ending is beautiful anyway.

we made it.
you didn’t.
but because of that—
we did.