She remembered it clearly, as if it were yesterday. The way he had looked, pale and fragile, lying on the hospital bed with IV drips running into his arm, his voice no longer loud or commanding, but cracked and subdued.
That day, with trembling hands, he had finally looked at her with glassy eyes and whispered the words she never thought she'd hear from him.
"Go find our grandson," he'd said, his voice barely audible, as if the sentence itself carried the weight of a lifetime's worth of repentance. "Tell him… I was wrong."
Her heart had clenched in her chest.
It was the first time in all those years that he had let go of his stubbornness. The first time he'd allowed himself to admit, even to himself, that what he had done to their daughter and to their grandson was unforgivable. And yet… he still hoped for forgiveness.
