The Banjo They Said I Could Forgive

Updates trickled in over the following months through my cousin Josie, who became something like a bridge to family news everyone else had walked away from. Roy lost his job that winter, refusing a remote position he thought was beneath him, and landed at a credit union making sixty-one thousand a year, down from a hundred sixty-eight. Dana took her first job in over a decade, retail management, thirty-seven thousand a year, with Beau in an aftercare program he hated and their house on the market two months behind on payments. He got suspended twice for fighting at school, and his counselor said he was processing what had happened and asking about me constantly.

“How do you feel about all of it,” Josie asked me once over coffee. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I thought I’d feel satisfied. I just feel empty.” “That’s normal,” she said. “You can be right and still be sad about it.”

I started seeing a therapist that fall, Dr. Alsup, whose office sat off a quiet street not far from downtown. In our third session she asked the question I’d been dodging. “Do you regret what you did?” “No,” I said. “Are you happy about how it turned out?” “No,” I said again. “Can both be true?” I thought about it. “Yeah,” I said. “Both can be true.” “Did you destroy their lives, or did they,” she asked. “They did,” I said. “I just held up a mirror.” “Exactly,” she said. “You set a boundary. They chose how to respond to it. You are not mourning the family you had. You are mourning the family you wished you’d had.”

That landed somewhere deep and stayed there.

I bought a cheap beginner banjo for three hundred ten dollars and mailed it to Beau anonymously, with a note that read only, “Music heals. Keep playing. Someone who cares.” No signature. The no-contact clause was still technically running, but I hoped it might help him the way music once helped me.

In May, Dana filed for divorce, citing Roy’s finances, his refusal to admit fault, and irreconcilable differences. Roy fought for custody, claiming she’d abandoned him during a crisis. Beau got caught in the middle of it again. Reading about it made me sad, mostly for him. The car had never been the actual problem. Roy’s character was the problem. The Audi had only ever been hiding it.

One afternoon my mother showed up at the small house I’d bought on the east side of Nashville. I didn’t invite her in, and we stood on the porch instead. “I was wrong about everything,” she said. “Roy’s been lying about his finances for years. That car was leased. Dana’s divorcing him. You tried to tell us and we didn’t listen.” “I know,” I said. “Can you forgive me,” she asked. “I already did,” I told her. She looked relieved too fast. “That doesn’t mean I trust you,” I added. “What can I do to fix this,” she asked. “Nothing. Just live with it. Like I have to.” She cried and drove away. Forgiveness had happened for me. Not for her, not yet.

In June, my father had a heart attack. Minor, Josie told me quickly, he was stable, but asking for me. I drove out to the hospital and saw him for the first time in four months, pale and thin, hooked to monitors. “You came,” he said. “You’re my dad,” I said. “I was a terrible father,” he told me. “I took Dana’s side without ever really listening.” “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry.” “I know,” I said. “Can we fix this?” “We can try. Slowly.” He understood what slowly meant. I stayed thirty minutes and left. No promises. Just showing up.