Chapter 18 - THE FIRST VISITFelix’s therapist said he should not be forced to decide whether to see Russell.
“He is a child,” Dr. Mason said. “The adults must create safety. His feelings can guide pace, but not carry responsibility.”
So the first supervised visit was scheduled only after months of therapy, court review, and preparation.
Felix wanted to go.
Then he did not.
Then he did.
The night before, he packed and unpacked his backpack four times.
“Do I have to hug him?”
“No.”
“Do I have to say I love him?”
“No.”
“What if he says sorry?”
“You can say whatever feels true.”
“What if nothing feels true?”
“Then you can say nothing.”
The visit took place at a family services center with beige walls and too many posters about communication.
I sat in the waiting room while Felix went in with the supervisor.
Russell was already there.
I saw him briefly through the hallway window.
He looked thinner. Older. His hair had more gray. He wore plain clothes and held a small gift bag that the supervisor inspected before allowing.
My chest tightened.
Not with love.
Not exactly with hate.
With memory.
This was the man who had once held Felix as a newborn and cried. This was the man who had danced with me in our first apartment when we could barely afford groceries. This was also the man who had hidden birthday cards in a garage.
People want monsters to be consistent.
They are easier to hate that way.
But real harm often comes from people who once knew how to be tender.
The visit lasted forty-five minutes.
I counted every one.
When Felix came out, he looked exhausted but not shattered.
I knelt.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
In the car, he was quiet.
I did not push.
Halfway home, he said, “He cried.”
I kept my eyes on the road.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s okay.”
“He said he was sick in his heart.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“What did the supervisor say?”
“She said we were there to talk about safe things.”
“Good.”
Felix looked out the window.
“He gave me a model car.”
“Do you want to keep it?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can put it away until you decide.”
He nodded.
Then he said, “He said he missed me.”
I waited.
“I told him I missed who I thought he was.”
My eyes burned.
“What did he say?”
“He cried more.”
At home, Felix placed the model car in a shoebox and slid it under his bed.
Not displayed.
Not thrown away.
Just not allowed to take over the room.
That felt right.
The visits continued once a month.
Sometimes Felix came home angry. Sometimes sad. Sometimes relieved. Sometimes he asked to skip the next one, and his therapist helped us communicate that through court.
Russell behaved better under supervision.
Of course he did.
But behaving in a room with observers is not the same as becoming safe.
Judge Porter understood that.
So did Dr. Mason.
So did I.
One afternoon, nearly a year after the bus station, Felix asked me a question while we watered my mother’s basil plants.
“Do you forgive Dad?”
The watering can tilted in my hand.
“I don’t know.”
“Grandma says forgiveness is for your own heart.”
“Grandma is wise.”
“Grandpa says some people use forgiveness like a crowbar to get back inside.”
“Grandpa is also wise.”
Felix considered this.
“What do you say?”
I sat on the patio chair.
“I say forgiveness does not mean giving someone the keys again.”
He nodded slowly.
“Can I forgive him and still not trust him?”
“Yes.”
“Can I love him and still be mad?”
“Yes.”
“Can you?”
I looked through the sliding door at my mother cooking, my father reading, the scratched kitchen table, the life we had rebuilt from wreckage.
“I can be free,” I said. “That’s what I’m working on.”
May you like
Felix poured water carefully over the basil.
“I think I’m working on that too.”
