Once upon a time there was a girl.  She grew up in what would probably be considered an unconventional home largely because her family did not fit the mold of what families were supposed to look like back then.  After all, it was the 70’s.  However, despite her family’s general lack of conformity, she was loved by those who mattered.  The fact that she was unloved by those who should have mattered is not the point.   The point is she had a roof over her head, food in her belly and a shirt on her back.  The girl’s humble upbringing gave her a certain sense of security, yet she didn’t always feel safe.  The girl was vaguely aware of concealed irregularities, while she also knew that there was a mysterious skeleton that lingered inside her closet who was responsible for much of her internal conflict.  As a result, she became suspicious and wary of most people which predictably manifested over time.  As she got older and more aware of her surroundings, her inherent cautious nature only deepened, compelling her to intensify her need to protect herself and those in her charge, also known as her children.  Through the years, she was never someone that could easily be described because she was, admittedly, not easy to get to know.  Observations of other people’s behaviors and actions took her down paths of discontent and extreme self-analysis as it became evident that she had become the square peg who was perpetually trying to fit into the round hole.  In fact, she continues to live her life that way.  You see, from the moment the girl was born, she had been willfully and indelibly harmed.  The wind blew, the cradle rocked, the bough broke and the girl fell. Although the girl was not visibly wounded, time would prove that it was her vulnerable heart that bore the brunt of that consequential fall.   It’s an ordinary story really and not exactly a tale untold.  The girl had no father which, when said out loud, sounds ridiculous.  It is not as if she was born from an immaculate conception, nor was she flown in on the wings of a stork.  She was simply the product of a union that resulted in immediate paternal abandonment.   Which is just a detached way of saying that her father left before she was even born.   It should have been the stork that brought her because that would have been a much more fun story to tell.  Instead, the girl has chosen to rarely, if ever, speak of it out loud because she found it difficult to speak of something that she herself has never accepted or fully understood.  It was when she was alone with her thoughts that she allowed her curiosity to wonder about the man who never became her father.  It was in those moments of deep reflection that she could speak to herself freely and give voice to a wide range of emotions, some of which were intent on pulling her beneath the surface of the water in an effort to drown her.   In her younger years, she spent an inordinate amount of time considering the kind of man who could participate in the creation of life only to abandon it without a single backward glance.  With dueling emotions that usually vacillated between unrelenting anger at this selfish man while, at the same time, foolishly continuing to hold onto the hope of meeting him some day, she was fraught with confusion in her futile attempts to rationalize that which was fundamentally irrational and unfair.  But, among many other difficult and harsh lessons the girl was forced to learn without her prior consent, life has taught her that fair rarely has anything to do with it.   And then, in his final selfish act, the girl’s father died, hammering the last nail into the coffin that the girl had built for him years before and burying with him any remaining hope as she came to the fated realization that her lifetime of questions would be forever unanswered. The loss, however, felt strangely profound because, In the girl’s world, he had already died a thousand deaths.  A blatant disregard for the most basic parent code of accountability and responsibility that was callously dropped inside the cradle of an unsuspecting and defenseless baby should be unforgiveable.  Because although the girl knows that his abrupt and unceremonious departure was not her fault, what he left behind proved to be, after all, her burden.   Some believe that in order to find inner peace, we must forgive freely and accept the sins of others with grace and understanding.  The girl, however, does not necessarily subscribe to that particular philosophy.  The man’s abandonment was chockful of lessons that he taught the girl from a distance without even knowing he was doing it.  And forgiveness was most certainly not on the syllabus.  So, what do you think?  In life or death, were the man’s actions not egregious enough, therefore, the girl should offer forgiveness and be grateful for the cruel life lesson that was forced upon her?   That depends entirely on who you ask.   Ernest Hemingway is quoted as having said, “To understand is to forgive. That’s not true. Forgiveness has been exaggerated.”  Maybe he was right.  Or maybe, considering how he met his own demise, he might not be the best muse to offer advice on this topic.  And yet, maybe the girl’s father is just another example of someone who is simply not worthy of forgiveness, with or without the benefit of the girl’s understanding.  But then again, who are we to decide whose sins are unpardonable? The truth is forgiveness does not come easily to most people.  Take a look around.  The world provides us with a plethora of examples of what ‘forgiveness’ really looks like in real time.  And it usually comes up woefully short.  In theory ‘to forgive and forget’ is the adopted mantra that, on its face, would be …