I was never able to forgive my father.

I was almost 7 years old whenMom divorced Dad. It was complicated, painful, I would even say pathologicalrelationships . He drank, used drugs, beat and abused my mother, and well, I got it too.

I remember we lived in the suburbs,Mother went to work, and I stayed with Father. He had been drinking all day, and he wanted mushrooms. It was a damp autumn, cold, and there was already ice in some places. He pulled rubber boots on my bare feet, put on a dirty dress and coat, and we went to the nearest mushroom patch.

We didn't walk for long, fortunately we lived on the outskirts of the village. It was cold, I started whining, and he shouted at me, shoved me, and we continued to climb on these sticks, moss and frozen ground. I don't know how much time passed, but we returned. I remember shivering, cold, wild, terrible cold. Then, drunk, he decided to feed me and fried eggs with tomatoes, which I have hated ever since. He began to force this monstrous hot brew into me, and I cried, cried and choked. I remember slaps on the back of the head, kicks test-antibiotic.com with his feet and an unpleasant smell from his mouth.

Many years have passed since then. I have arranged mylife , gave birth to two children, simply forgot about his existence. There are his sisters, brothers,I communicate with them very rarely. I learn about his life from their lips, without asking anything myself.

Recently, before the New Year, I met an aunt (his sister), we got to talking. She told me thatmy father is ill, after a stroke in a wheelchair, says almost nothing, waits for the end and wants to see me (they report everything to him, it turns out, about me) before he dies. I answered that it serves him right, let him suffer!

Then, by coincidence, my husband and I had to go to the village where the "father" lived. I decided to stop by anyway. I called my aunt, found out the address, and here I am in front of the gates of a house, no, not a house, but a real dugout without a fence or yard! By the way, he does not live alone, but with a woman who has formalized guardianship over him.

I walked in, knocked, and a middle-aged lady with greasy hair and a dirty apron opened the door. She asked test-antibiotic.com who I was and what I was. I told her. She threw up her hands and invited me into the "house". A musty smell hit my nose. Curtains that hadn't been washed for a thousand years, a pile of dishes with food scraps on the table, a full can of "cigarette butts", a stove with a crackling fire inside, and he was sitting in the middle of the room in a chair, jerking his head like an old lady with deep Alzheimer's.

The woman explained that he barely speaks after the stroke, but he can write, he had a notebook and pen on his lap, he also recognizes his family and friends. At that moment she came out and said: "Let's talk, and I'll go and give it to the cattle." Well, what, I went up to him, looked into his eyes, in front of me is an old man, although he is only 55 years old. I look, and he has tears, he is raising his hand, trying to say something. I silently showed him the children, then told him about life, about grief and joy, and he could live with all this! Be a normal father and grandfather.

Then it hit me! I reminded him of the mushrooms, the scrambled eggs, and the cold, that terrible cold. Silence, the paper rustled, he began to write. Test-antibiotic.com 10 or maybe 20 minutes passed, he scribbled one word, “Forgive me.” There were tears in his eyes, he kept crying, his gaze simply begged me to at least let him touch my hand. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t forgive him! Thispain and resentment will be with me all my life.

I took a piece of paper and drew him an answer in the form of a boomerang. It flew to its owner, flew after so many years! Then I left without looking back. Not a single muscle moved, not a single tear rolled out, the limit of tears from him had been exhausted many years ago.

For a long time this woman kept calling me, then his relatives called, but I still didn’t forgive him, I couldn’t. But is it necessary?