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| The Weight of The Past |
It had been nearly two years since Darren last had a drink.
There were still moments when the urge would creep in—after a lengthy day at work, after enduring a heavy silence, or after she crossed his mind. Yet each time, he recalled the vow he had taken: to God, to himself, and to the daughter who hadn't talked to him since she was sixteen.
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at the last text he’d sent her four months ago.
“Just wanted to say I’m proud of you. No pressure to reply. I’m here when you’re ready. –Dad”
The message had been delivered. Seen. No response.
Darren released a shaky breath as he browsed her public Instagram profile. He wasn't obsessing like he used to; he just wanted to make sure she was doing alright. She was in college these days, focusing on psychology. Occasionally, she shared photos of coffee mugs, sunsets, and friends unfamiliar to him. One picture from last week showed her laughing in a bookstore, and he found himself gazing at it longer than he intended.
He recalled bringing her to the library when she was eight years old. While she was inside, he dozed off in the car. Upon waking, he realized she was missing. The police eventually discovered her sobbing behind the building. She had waited and waited, then wandered away, believing he had abandoned her.
That was the first time she said, “I don’t trust you.”
She had every right.
Darren traced his thumb along the phone's edge, puzzled about why she had unblocked his number. Perhaps she wanted to check if he was still alive, felt sorry for him, or maybe it was an act of divine intervention—though Darren doubted that God would be involved in such matters.
He opened a new text. Typed. Erased. Typed again.
“You don’t have to forgive me. I just want you to know I’m still trying. Still sober. Still praying for you.”
He stared at it.
Then hit send.
The message went through instantly.
He laid the phone face down on the nightstand and leaned back against the wall, gazing up at the ceiling. His mind drifted to the cross his pastor had gifted him after receiving his one-year chip. It still hung by the door, sometimes feeling like an achievement, other times like a burden.
“God,” he whispered, “what if I’ve been forgiven by You… but not by her?”
There was no thunder or voice, only the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the distant noise of cars driving by outside.
Still, he stayed there, eyes closed. Waiting.
The following morning, Darren found himself seated alone in the last row of a modest storefront church he had begun visiting every Tuesday night. It wasn't anything extravagant—just some rows of chairs, walls with chipped paint, and a table with lukewarm coffee by the entrance. Yet, it was the only space where he felt free from the shadows of his past.
This week’s devotional was led by a woman named Denise, someone from the recovery group who had a voice that was always gentler than Darren thought he deserved. She stood at the front with her Bible open, reading from Luke 15.
“While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him…”
Her voice caught slightly on the word compassion, and she took a breath before closing the book.
“I used to think this story was only about the son,” she said. “But lately I’ve been thinking about the father. The waiting. The pain. The wondering if he’d ever get a second chance to love his child.”
Darren shifted in his seat, the breath catching in his throat.
“He didn’t wait until his son apologized,” Denise continued. “He didn’t demand explanations. He ran. He wrapped him in grace before a word was spoken. That’s how God loves us. And maybe that’s how we’re called to love too—even when the person we’re waiting on… doesn’t come back.”
Her gaze swept across the room without settling on anyone specific. However, Darren was convinced she glanced at him.
He dropped his head into his hands. His eyes burned.
That night, he didn’t text his daughter.
He didn’t check Instagram.
He sat at the kitchen table with an open Bible and a yellow legal pad, writing down the names of everyone he’d hurt—starting with her.
When he reached her name, he stopped.
Not because it hurt the most.
But because something in him said: This is where healing begins.
With a trembling hand, Darren circled her name on the legal pad, as if marking a boundary between the past and the future. He traced the letters of her name, feeling the weight of each stroke. It was a name that had once been spoken with tenderness, now carrying a heavy burden of regret and distance.
As he sat there in the quiet of his kitchen, he felt the weight of his actions settle around him like a shroud. The memories of missed birthdays, broken promises, and drunken arguments flooded back to him with a painful clarity. He thought about all the times he had chosen the bottle over his daughter, all the moments he had let her down.
But there was something different stirring within him now. A flicker of hope, a whisper of redemption. The words Denise had spoken at the church echoed in his mind, challenging him to love without conditions, to offer grace without expecting anything in return.
The sudden ringing of his cell phone jolted him from his deep contemplation
Darren didn’t recognize the number at first. Thought about ignoring it—like he did with most unknowns. But something in him stirred. He picked up.
"Hello?" Darren answered, his voice tentative.
There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Darren's heart began to race. Could it be her? The daughter he had been yearning to hear from for so long?
"Dad?”
The word pierced through the phone, sending a wave of emotions crashing over Darren. It was her. It was his daughter.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he struggled to compose himself. "Yes, sweetheart, it's me," he managed to say, his voice thick with emotion.
"I... I got your message," she said softly, her voice trembling with an emotion Darren couldn't quite place.
Darren's grip on the phone tightened. This was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for, hoping for. "I've missed you so much," he whispered, the words carrying a lifetime of longing.
There was a pause on the line before she spoke again. "I've missed you too, Dad,” her voice cracked, and Darren felt his heart shatter and mend all at once. They spoke for hours that night, dancing around the painful memories and tiptoeing into the future they both longed to be a part of. She told him about her classes, her friends, her dreams. He listened in awe, hanging on to every word as if it were a lifeline.
When the call finally ended, Darren sat in the dimly lit kitchen, the weight of regret replaced by something softer.
Hope.
He looked at the legal pad in front of him—the names, the past, the pain.
And he circled hers again.
This time, not in grief.
But in grace.
And for the first time in a long time, he believed that maybe...
this was just the beginning.
