37. Chapter 37 #2
I nod, not entirely surprised by her response. Aunt Charlene has always been able to see multiple sides of a situation, to find nuance where others see only black and white.
“Is it pathetic,” I ask, my voice smaller than I intend, “that despite everything, I still miss him?” I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat.
“I was starting to soften towards him before this conversation. Starting to think maybe we could have a chance. And now I just don’t know what to think. ”
Charlene reaches across the table again, covering my hand with hers. “It’s not pathetic, Caitlin. Not even a little bit.”
“It feels pathetic,” I admit. “After everything he did, everything he put me through, I should hate him. I should want nothing to do with him. But instead, I keep thinking about how it felt when he held me while I cried. How safe I felt. How right, despite everything.”
“Love isn’t a switch you can just flip off,” Charlene says gently. “Especially not when it’s real, when it’s deep. And what you and Adam had was real. The fact that you still have feelings for him doesn’t make you pathetic or weak. It makes you human.”
Luna stretches in my lap, then settles back down, her warmth a comfort against the chill that’s settled in my chest. “I just don’t know if I can trust him again,” I whisper. “Or if I even should.”
Charlene is quiet for a moment, her face serious. “Can I share something with you? Something to think about?”
I nod, curious about what she’s going to say.
“Peter and Adam have had several conversations about what happened. And from everything I’ve heard, from you and from Peter, Adam was abused as a child.”
I blink, startled by her words. “Abused? But he never mentioned—”
“A parent doesn’t have to raise a hand against a kid to abuse them,” Charlene continues, her voice gentle but firm.
“They can do it with words, with expectations, with emotional manipulation. Adam was given burdens that should never have been his to carry, and then told he was a disappointment when he failed to carry those burdens. That does horrible things to a child, Caitlin. Horrible, lasting things.”
I think about Adam’s stories of his childhood, of the constant pressure to put Millie first, of the guilt trips from his mother. I’d felt sympathy for him when he told me, but I hadn’t thought of it as abuse. The word seems too harsh, too extreme.
“I know it’s hard to see it that way,” Charlene says, as if reading my thoughts.
“We think of abuse as bruises and broken bones, as violence and obvious cruelty. But psychological abuse can be just as damaging, sometimes more so because the wounds aren’t visible.
They’re inside, in the way a person thinks about themselves, in the choices they believe they’re allowed to make. ”
She takes a sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Think about it, Caitlin. Adam was told from the time he was a little boy that Millie’s happiness was his responsibility.
That if she was sad or upset, it was his job to fix it.
That his own needs and wants were selfish if they came at the expense of hers.
What does that do to a child’s sense of self?
To their understanding of what love is supposed to look like? ”
I feel a chill run through me as her words sink in. “It taught him that Millie was more important, Millie’s needs were more important,” I say slowly. “That his own happiness didn’t matter.”
“Exactly.” Charlene nods. “And then he grows up and falls in love with you, real love, the kind that’s supposed to be mutual and balanced.
But the patterns are already there, already carved into his brain.
When his mother started pushing him to prioritize Millie again, he fell back into those old patterns because that’s what felt normal to him, even though it was hurting you. ”
I’m quiet, turning her words over in my mind. I think about Adam’s face as he told me about the cruise, about the shame and self-loathing I saw there. I think about how he said he felt trapped, unable to stand up to his mother, unable to refuse Millie’s needs.
“That doesn’t mean his actions were acceptable,” Charlene continues, her voice firmer now.
“They weren’t. He hurt you deeply, repeatedly.
And it doesn’t mean you have to accept or forgive his behavior.
It is perfectly understandable if you decide you can’t get past what happened in Mount Pella.
Some wounds cut too deep to heal completely. ”
She takes my hand again, her grip warm and solid.
“But it’s also perfectly acceptable for you to decide to forgive him, to decide you want to try again.
Sometimes love requires grace, Caitlin. The grace to say, ‘I see that you were broken, I see that you’re trying to heal, and I’m willing to walk that path with you. ’”
Tears well in my eyes at her words, at the simple truth of them. “I don’t know if I can,” I whisper. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
“There’s no timeline for this,” Charlene assures me. “No right or wrong answer. The choice is yours, and yours alone. Don’t let anyone take it from you; not Rachel with her protective anger, not Adam with his regret, not even me with my well-meaning advice.”
I smile weakly at that. “Your well-meaning advice is usually pretty good.”
“Usually,” she agrees with a small smile of her own. “But in this case, only you know what’s right for you. Only you can decide if the love you still feel for Adam is stronger than the hurt he caused you. If the man he’s becoming is someone you can trust with your heart again.”
She squeezes my hand once more before releasing it. “Whatever you decide, know that Peter and I are here for you. That we love you and support you, no matter what.”
As Charlene starts cleaning up from breakfast, I sit at the kitchen table with my third cup of coffee, watching the patterns of sunlight shift across the floor as morning stretches toward afternoon.
Luna has abandoned my lap for a sunny spot on the windowsill, her small body curled into a perfect circle, whiskers twitching occasionally in her sleep.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting Charlene’s words settle over me like a familiar blanket.
Adam was abused as a child. Not with fists or belts, but with expectations and guilt and manipulation, tools that left no visible marks but carved deep grooves in his sense of self.
It doesn’t excuse what he did, but it helps me understand it in a way I couldn’t before.
My chest feels lighter somehow, despite the lingering ache of yesterday’s breakdown.
There’s something freeing about having everything out in the open now, about not having to wonder anymore.
The truth is painful, but it’s a clean pain, like disinfecting a wound; it hurts, but it’s a necessary hurt that leads to healing.
The first tendrils of forgiveness curl through me, delicate as new growth after a long winter. Not complete forgiveness, not yet. But the beginning of it, the possibility.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean pretending the hurt never happened, or that it didn’t matter. It means acknowledging the pain, holding space for it, but not letting it define the future. It means choosing to see the whole person, not just their worst mistakes.
And right now, this small possibility feels like enough. It feels like a gift I didn’t expect to receive, a door opening when I thought all the doors were closed. Whatever happens next, I’ll face it with open eyes and an open heart.