Letters people chose to share.

Everyone said you ruined your life. You did not. You delayed it. I forgive the delay. I forgive the people who said it was ruin. Most of them are not in my life now. The ones who are stayed for who you became, not who they wanted you to be.

Inverse letter. I am asking your forgiveness. I was depressed for two years and I was cruel about being depressed. Hilchot Teshuvah requires asking three times. I have asked once today. I will ask twice more this week. The asking is the practice, not the receiving.

You did not say what you needed to say at the bedside. You said it at the grave. She heard one or the other, or neither, or both. I forgive the silence at the bed. I keep the speech at the grave. Teshuvah is also for what we did not do — and the return is possible even after they are gone.

I came back for you. I love you. You are safe now. I sat with you for an hour today. I'm going to sit with you again tomorrow.

You voted me out for raising the harassment complaint. I am writing this so my anger has a destination that is not myself. I do not forgive the vote. I forgive my own hope that the vote would go differently. Tikkun — the world is broken in this specific way. I repair the piece I can reach.

You would be sixteen this week. I do not forgive the universe. I do not believe the universe owes me a settlement. Tikkun olam — the world is broken, and the broken is what I tend to. I planted a tree at the school. It will be there when I am not.

I am not forgiving you today. I am writing this so I do not call you. The therapist says naming the impulse without acting on it is the practice. So: I am angry. I am not calling. Letter closed.

It was four hundred dollars and a book my mother gave me. I write off the four hundred. I do not write off the book. Some things are debts of money. Some are debts of attention. I forgive the first and grieve the second.

You took the laptop and the rings. You also took my comfort with the front door. I am writing this so the door becomes mine again. The locksmith came on Tuesday. The forgiveness is taking longer than the lock did.

I have rehearsed this letter for sixteen months. The rehearsal is the prison. Today I write the actual letter and burn the rehearsals. I forgive the lying. I do not forgive my own willingness to be lied to. That is the work I keep.

You collapsed in the privatization. Three families left. The dining hall is closed. I forgive the collapse. I forgive my own romance about what we were. Tikkun olam — I tend the broken piece. The piece is the memory and the children of the children. I am telling them what worked. I am telling them what did not.

I should have protected you. I carry this still. I lay it down today.

I will not name what you did. The naming is mine, not the letter's. I am writing this so the silence I kept for twenty years has a date on which it ended. Today is the date. Sumud — I remain rooted in my own life. You do not get to uproot it from where I am now.

I forgive every phone call at 3 a.m. and every Christmas you did not come to. I forgive my own years of believing you could choose to be different. Steven Hayes writes that suffering increases when we struggle against what is. You are what is. I love what is. I am still learning the second sentence.

The road is mined. The relatives are scattered. I will not see the well again. Sumud says to remain rooted in what cannot be taken — the prayer, the song, the recipe, the name. I keep these. The well lives in them.

You worked forty-three years for a company that did not love you back. You did not need it to. You needed the wage and the pension. You got them. I forgive the years you waited for the company to be different. It was a company. It did what companies do. You are free of it now.

I was nine. The social worker asked. You said no. I am forty-six writing this. Mechilah — the release of debt — does not require your participation. I release the debt. I do not call you on Sundays. These are compatible.

I never said it. I'm saying it now: I forgive you. I love you. Rest. The grave is in Karachi and I am in Toronto and the distance does not matter for this kind of speech. Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim. May Allah pardon us both.

You suspended my son three times for things his white classmates did once and walked away from. I forgive the principal as a person. I do not forgive the policy. Stevenson writes that we are all more than the worst thing we have done. My son is more than the suspensions. I am writing this so the record reflects it.

You did the best you could with what you knew. I'm proud of who you became.