Just a memory she could finally carry without pain:
Beth hadn’t planned to go back. Not really. But the dream came again—soft, persistent. The hallway of doors, each marked with a year, a feeling, a name. She walked slowly, her fingers grazing the brass handles until she stopped at one painted pale blue. The year was etched faintly: 2009.
She hesitated, then opened it.
Inside was the living room of her childhood home. The air was thick with the scent of old carpet and unresolved tension. Her father sat in the blue chair, the one that creaked when he shifted. She was sixteen again, standing in the doorway, fists clenched, voice trembling. The argument was about something small—curfew, maybe—but the words had cut deep. He’d said things. She’d said worse.
She watched the scene unfold like a play. Her younger self stormed out. Her father stared at the empty doorway, his face unreadable.
But this time, Beth didn’t leave. She stepped forward, unseen, and sat in the chair across from him. She looked at the man who had raised her, flawed and tired, and saw something she hadn’t noticed before: fear. Not anger. Not control. Just fear—of losing her, of not knowing how to reach her.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered, though he couldn’t hear.
The room shimmered. Her father looked up, as if sensing something. His eyes softened. The creases in his brow seemed less harsh.
Beth stood and walked to the door. Before leaving, she turned back and said, “I forgive you”, “please forgive me”, I love you”.
The blue chair didn’t creak this time. The room was quiet, but lighter. She stepped into the hallway, the door closing gently behind her. It no longer felt like a prison. Just a memory. One she could finally carry without pain.
.
