I always hated him. Always. For ruining his life and of course ours. Utterly detested that vague relationship. I don’t even cry now remembering him. It’s like I’ve become somewhat numb now. I still remember that last meeting, though. He tried to hug mother and me tightly, one last time and started crying his bellows out. I didn’t want to, so I escaped from that so-called love bond he was trying set up that last and I guess first time. ‘Why should I respect his wish now when all our lives he didn’t bother our wishes, our suggestions, our counseling’, I thought. It was too late to remedy it, he should’ve known that.
He then left, silently, without saying a word. I wondered a long time how mother understood his each and every word in that silence. It was suffocating. And exasperating. And loathing. And a mortification of course.
Years after years, when I look back now, I see his reasons, his excuses, his laments, his apologies, his mitigations.
I wonder how hard he must be bounded committing that sin. It must be difficult to act inhumane, no? I wonder, if only that day I had not escaped that awkward hug maybe then he would’ve uttered some of his thoughts, some of his bawl, his last apologies, the love he didn’t get a chance to express properly, the promises he couldn’t fulfill. How he yearned for a last reprieve, how immensely he regretted his deeds. Now, I understand how mother understood him so easily that day. I wish I wasn’t that immature back then. I wish life wasn’t unjust to this extent. I truly wish that.