After the arrest, my family tried to reach me through mutual friends like I was a customer service line they could call when they needed to fix something. At first it was vague: Your mom wants you to know she misses you. Your dad is really upset. Clara’s having a hard time.
Then it became direct: They want to apologize. They want to explain. They want to see you.
Every time someone brought it up, I said no.
Caitlyn called again a few weeks later.
“Your mom asked me to tell you she’s sorry,” she said. “She said they realize they handled everything wrong. That they made terrible mistakes.”
“It’s too late for sorry,” I replied.
I didn’t say it with drama. I said it like stating a fact. Like telling someone the store is closed.
“They spent five years not caring whether I was alive or dead,” I continued. “Then they demanded I bankrupt myself for Clara. Then they committed actual crimes because I wouldn’t do what they wanted.”
Caitlyn sighed. “But they’re your family.”
I stared at the ceiling, feeling the old tug of guilt, the old conditioning, like a hook in my ribs.