Forgiveness Is Not Owed: Thoughts On My Father’s Death

I received a call from my mother to tell me that my father, her ex-husband, was dying. I had known for months that he was sick, and during those months leading up to his death, my mother had pleaded with me to speak to him. She would say, “You don’t have to love him, but you’ll regret not speaking to him one last time.”

My sister flew to Texas to be with him before the end. She, too, urged me: “You should clear the air.” Eventually, during that time, a call came from his new wife, a woman I had never met. I didn’t answer. I had nothing to say to her. The casual vacancy in her voice as she said, “This is Mary-Chris, your stepmother. I know we’ve never met, but your daddy is not long for this world and would love to speak to you,” rang hollow.

Then he called himself. It was a rainy Tuesday—the kind of rain that seems endless, muffling the world in a gray cocoon. It was fitting, I thought, that the weather mirrored the heaviness I had carried for years. When the call came, I let it ring until the voicemail captured what I already knew would be his last attempt at redemption. I deleted the message without listening. And I have no regrets.

I grew up in the shadow of his rage. His words cut deeper than any weapon, slicing through my confidence and leaving behind scars that bled into adulthood.

The violence of his abuse made me question my value and taught me that love was conditional. He shunned me for not meeting his expectations, for daring to be myself in a world he sought to control. His violence was a thundercloud—ever-present and suffocating. By the time I escaped his grasp—him in handcuffs and me, at 16, with a fat lip and years of torture behind me—I had already mourned the loss of the father I deserved but never had.

In his final moments, he wanted forgiveness, and my forgiveness was expected. The endless gaslighting from everyone was palpable. It seemed that because my sister had forgave him, and my mother found a space to hear him out, I needed to also. Yet I was resolved- the answer was no.

Death has a way of making people fear what lies beyond. I knew his call wasn’t an apology; it was a plea for absolution, an attempt to wipe his conscience clean before the end. There were years when perhaps a conversation could have changed the course of our relationship, but by then, I wasn’t interested. Maybe he had changed—found sobriety, rediscovered his faith, or reconciled with his God—who knows? Maybe I had become a cold-hearted bitch, hardened by years of his abuse. But forgiveness is not something owed; it’s a gift, one I had no intention of giving.

Forgiveness requires more than a dying man’s fear or the last-minute grasp at redemption. It demands accountability, genuine remorse, and a willingness to change—none of which he ever offered me. What he wanted was a clean slate, a soothing of his conscience before the inevitable, while leaving me to carry the weight of what he’d done. I had spent years piecing myself back together, finding my value, and reclaiming my power. To offer forgiveness in that moment would have been to betray myself and all the work I had done to heal.

For years, I wrestled with society’s narrative that we must forgive those who wrong us to find peace. As queer people, we are told to honor our families, even when they have harmed us deeply. But peace doesn’t come from absolving abusers; it comes from reclaiming the power they took from us. My father’s death didn’t change the years of pain he inflicted or the self-doubt I fought to overcome. If anything, his final plea reinforced what I had come to understand: his remorse wasn’t for me; it was for himself. And I refused to sacrifice my hard-won healing for his comfort.

Mary Oliver once wrote, “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.” My father’s abuse was my box of darkness.

For a long time, I carried it, heavy and unwieldy, mistaking its weight for something I had to bear. But in time, I realized the gift wasn’t the darkness itself, but the freedom to set it down. To refuse his call was to honor the work I had done to stand in my own power, to choose myself over the endless cycle of his harm.

As queer people, we are often forced to navigate a world that questions our very existence. Sometimes, the people who should protect us become our perpetrators. It is okay to walk away from them. We can mourn the loss of blood kin while understanding that true kinship lies in the families we choose for ourselves. Forgiveness isn’t the key to freedom; choosing ourselves is.

I don’t regret not taking the call. I mourned my father long before his body gave out, grieved the relationship we never had, and let go of the hope that he might become the man I needed him to be. His death was not a turning point for me; it was an echo of a story I had already closed.

Abuse teaches us to minimize our worth, to believe that we owe something to those who harm us. But we don’t owe them forgiveness, reconciliation, or absolution. What we owe is to ourselves: the courage to heal, the strength to say no, and the grace to live without regret. As a queer person, my father’s death wasn’t an ending for me; it was a confirmation that I had already moved on.

I write this essay to affirm for every queer person who stumbles upon it: choose yourself first.

Whether it’s in the hour of someone’s death or the moment you receive an invitation to a holiday gathering where your light is dimmed, remember that your worth is not determined by their acceptance or approval. You have the right to refuse spaces where you are diminished, and to walk away from relationships that cause harm. This is not selfishness—it is self-preservation. To choose yourself is to honor the life you’ve fought to create and the person you’ve worked to become.

Your power lies in the freedom to prioritize your well-being and to create spaces where you can shine fully and unapologetically. It lies in choosing family and community that celebrate your light, your identity, and your truth. You deserve to surround yourself with people who see you as whole and worthy, just as you are. To every queer person reading this: you are not required to shrink for the comfort of others. Stand tall, embrace your light, and know that true kinship is found in the love you choose for yourself.