But I no longer ask him to prove he's sorry.
I can see what he's learned.
In the way he listens.
In the way he asks questions.
And in the way he looks at the children in his life as people whose feelings matter, not problems to be managed.
We still visit the lake cottage.
The trees have grown taller.
The porch has been repaired.
And the little meadow near the water is now filled with wildflowers every spring.
Dad offered to transfer the property into my direct ownership once the trust arrangements permitted it.
I asked him to help me understand the responsibilities first.
He smiled.
Then he spent an entire afternoon explaining maintenance, insurance, property taxes, and why old wooden buildings always seem to develop problems when nobody is paying attention.
I laughed.
"You're making this sound very romantic."
He grinned.
"Ownership is romantic until the roof starts leaking."
We both laughed.
Then he grew serious.
"Your mother wanted this place to be yours."
I looked toward the water.
"I know."
He nodded.
"She loved it."
I smiled.
"So do I."
And now, when I walk along the lake, I don't think of the property consultant or the papers my stepmother tried to sign.
I think of my mother.
My brother catching frogs.
Grandma carrying food onto the porch.
And Dad reading the letter that told me I never had to become smaller to deserve love.
I haven't spoken to my former stepmother in many years.
I know enough about the legal consequences to understand that her attempts to use forged documents and unauthorized financial arrangements were taken seriously. I also know that her business problems didn't disappear simply because she lost access to our family.
But I don't follow her life.
I don't search for her online.
And I don't spend my evenings wondering whether she regrets what happened.
Perhaps she does.
Perhaps she doesn't.
I don't need to know.
For a long time, I thought healing would mean reaching a point where the memory no longer hurt.
Now I understand it differently.
Healing means the memory doesn't get to make every decision for me.
It means I can sit inside an SUV without expecting someone to grab my hair.
It means I can sign a document without immediately imagining that someone is trying to trick me.
It means I can remember my mother without feeling guilty.
And it means I can love my father while acknowledging that he should have protected us sooner.