The Day They Forgave Me (Before I Forgave Myself)

They didn’t say it out loud, or otherwise make it known,

No speeches made, no painted signs, no big words overthrown.

Forgiveness, it came softly; quiet, and slow,

Like light through a door I’d bolted with, “No.”

It lived in their laughter—careless and free,

In hands reaching out, without doubting me.

In the way they said, “Mum”—still warm; still whole,

Like my broken past hadn’t swallowed the role.

I carried my shame, like a weight on my chest,

They carried none—they just wanted my best.

I counted the nights I was half-there; not true,

They never kept score of the things I’d undo.

I judged my every failure; replayed my every fall,

Built courtrooms in silence, where I’d sentence them all.

While I punished my heart for the things I’d become,

They were planning tomorrow, with me as their mum.

Children don’t forgive with words carefully said,

They forgive by believing you’ll show up instead.

By asking for presence and trusting you’ll try,

By sleeping in peace, sure you won’t say goodbye.

That faith cracked me open, undone and bare,

Even when I wasn’t sure I deserved their care.

They’d already freed me from who I had been,

While I clung to the wreckage, replaying the sin.

I wanted their anger—it fit with what I knew,

A punishment equal to what I’d put them through.

But love showed up braver, undeserved, and true,

And asked me to see myself how they do.

So, this is the day that I finally tell,

Not the day I was forgiven—but learned it as well.

Forgiveness can find you before you feel whole,

Before you’re prepared to release your control.

The day my children again believed in my light,

When I couldn’t yet see it, or trust it, or fight.

And because of their faith—steady, true, and unshy,

I stayed; I chose living; I learned how to try.

©️ Wonderland Wanderess 2025