Letters people chose to share.

You signed the papers in the lawyer's office and walked four blocks to the diner and ordered eggs you did not eat. I forgive the eggs. I forgive the year you spent eating eggs you did not eat. The diner is closed now. You are not. Mechilah — I release the year.

You buried your husband, your sister, your son. You are eighty-nine and alone. I forgive every harsh word you spoke after the third funeral. Metta — may you be safe, may you be happy, may you be healthy, may you live with ease. I cannot fix the loneliness. I can phone on Tuesdays. I am phoning.

You did istikhara every night for six months. I was unconscious for two of them. I forgive my own anger at you for praying when I wanted you to scream. The Qur'an says Allah is closer than the jugular vein. Your prayer was the vein. I am sorry I doubted it. Afw — wipe it clean.

I have been at war with you for thirty years. I'm tired. Today I choose peace. Metta — may I be safe. May I be happy. May I be healthy. May I live with ease. I am saying the third one to a body that is not healthy. I say it anyway. The intention is the practice.

I gave testimony to the diocese in 2019. They sent a settlement and a non-disclosure. I did not sign. Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela writes that forgiveness without truth-telling is impunity dressed up. I am dressing nothing up. I name what you did. I refuse the settlement. The testimony stands.

I lied for fourteen months. I forgive my younger self only to the extent that I have made the work of not doing it again my whole adult practice. If forgiveness requires repair and repair requires not repeating — I have not repeated. That is the only sentence in this letter I am sure of.

I am angry at you and I love you and both of those are allowed to be in the same letter. The Buddhist nun at the retreat told me Metta begins with the self. May I be safe. May I be happy. May I be healthy. May I live with ease. I am still working on the third one. The first three months I could not say any of them.

I do not think of you on Tuesdays anymore. Or Wednesdays. Some Fridays still. I forgive the affair. I forgive my own three months of believing I could fix it. Worthington's A — Altruistic gift — I am not sending it to you. I am leaving it here. The gift is that I no longer rehearse the speech.

You did not break me. I am writing this on May 11 to prove it.

I am laughing as I write this. I forgive you for the dog. He is happier with you. I am writing this so the laughing does not come out as bitter. Some forgiveness is also a release of pride. Kshama — patient endurance. Of my own ego, mostly. The dog is fine. I am fine. The letter is finished.

I cannot return what was taken from you. I can stop adding to the taking. Ubuntu extends beyond persons in some southern African readings — to the land that holds the persons. I forgive my ignorance. I commit to the learning.

Eleven years of drinking. Two of using. I forgive what I did to you to the extent that I do not do it anymore. Hayes writes that workability is the test — does the behavior move me toward what I value? Drinking did not. Not drinking does. I am keeping the workable thing.

I came in broken. You held me for two years. Then I needed to go. I forgive my own guilt about leaving. The room is not the only room. Twelve-step says one day at a time. I am taking it. Just in a different room now. Gratitude is not the same as obligation. I am grateful. I am no longer obligated.

You held my hand. I never got your name. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

It took eight years. I forgive the part of me that thought the eight years meant something was wrong with us. Sometimes love rearranges its furniture. The room is still warm. The configuration is different. I am glad the room exists.

Inay, I learned English so well that I forgot the word for sorry in the language you sang me to sleep in. Patawarin mo ako. I had to look it up. I forgive the child who let the language go. I forgive the mother who did not insist. We were both surviving the new country.

The conversation was on a Tuesday in March. You said it in the kitchen. I forgive the saying. I am sitting with what was true in it. Some of it was. Some of it was the wrong year. I am not arguing the year. I am sitting with the part that was true. That is the work.

I will be reciting Kaddish for my father next month. I do not need your approval to recite it. The Mishnah was given to all of us. I forgive your gatekeeping. The gate stays open behind me for the next person you would have turned away.

You changed your phone number in 2023. I have not had the new one. I write this on your birthday. I forgive the change. I do not forgive myself for what made it necessary. That work is mine to do. If you ever read this — I am sober four years. I am not asking for the number back. I am putting the door on its hinge.

Bryan Stevenson writes that each of us is more than the worst thing we have done. You are more than the worst thing you did. I forgive what you did to our family. I do not forgive what you did to the woman. That is hers, not mine. I will visit on the twentieth. I will not bring the topic.