The Weight of Forgiveness by Alada Porter (the beach read txt) 📕

your health, I just don’t understand how you could let yourself get this way,” she said slowly, no word leaving her mouth without being perfectly weighed and measured.


“Go to hell.”


I stood up and made my way over to the stairs, my eyes burning with the promise of tears. It was always the same.


“Goddamn it Angela! I’m doing my best! What the hell was I supposed to do after your father left? I’m sorry I’m gone so much, but I try to make it up to you when I am home. Damn it, it’s my job to raise you and you’re just not letting me! What the hell am I supposed to do? Just sit back and watch you turn into a-a fat pig

!?” she screamed from behind me, her voice shaking from the effort of holding in her tears. I felt my heart crumble like a piece of charred firewood, lifting up and drifting off with the wind.


“I’m sorry that I look just like you mom,” I said quietly, “I know how much pride you take in your appearance, it must be difficult to see a younger version of yourself a hundred pounds overweight. But I’m not you; in fact you can just pretend we’re not even related. Why don’t you just go back to the office? Please don’t concern yourself with me; I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”


She didn’t say anything, and after I closed my bedroom door I heard the door slam and the car start. As she drove away I lay on my bed and wondered if things can change without you making an effort to change them.

The Last Breakfast

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” I said, leaning up against the counter as he walked into the diner, the little bell over the door twinkling cheerfully.


“Why would you think that?” he said, sitting down next to me with a groan. He looked like he had just woken up; his eyes were still puffy with sleep and his breath smelled like raw sewage.


“Well you’re an hour late for starters.”


“Hate to break it to you toots but homeless guys aren’t so great at knowing what time it is,” he yawned, placing his cheek against the counter and closing his eyes. I blinked at him; of course I must have known that he was homeless, it was patently obvious from the get go what with his dirty clothes and thin face, but hearing it just said out loud like that gave me a bit of a shock.


“So why did you come at all? You could be sleeping right now.”


“I can sleep anytime; it isn’t every day that I get offered a free meal. You are going to feed me right?”


“Of course,” I replied, laughing despite myself. I turned away from him and faced the tall old lady who was polishing a glass behind the counter, “Hey Marie, you know what I want.”


She looked at me over the top of her glasses, “Does your mother know how you’re spending your allowance?”


“Oh come on Marie, mom’s been making me live off of salad for the past three weeks. Besides, I promised Jack here a hearty breakfast.”


He snored lightly against the counter, dead to the world for the time being.


“You’re a sneak alright, I won’t tell your mama, but you better give that poor boy at least two thirds of your order. He looks like he’s going to drop dead any minute.”


“Sure thing.”


I watched him as he slept, his dirty brown hair falling over his eyelids, his face squished against the counter top in a kind of endearingly childish way. His face showed none of the strain I associated with a hard life, and I tried to guess what he was dreaming about. California? The thought was like a knife twisting in my heart, but I tried my best to ignore it.


“Here you go hun,” Marie said, placing the tray of freshly made donuts on the counter with a sharp clack. Jack startled awake and stared at the tray of food, blinking hard to get the last of the sleep out of his eyes.


“Holy crap, this is your regular order? No wonder you’re fat… no offense,” he said, grimacing slightly at his own brutal honestly. I just shrugged, for some reason nothing he said ever seemed to hurt my feelings, maybe because I knew he didn’t mean anything by it.


“What can I say? I like to eat. But you go ahead, have as much as you want.”


He clapped his hands and proceeded to shove an entire cream filled doughnut into his mouth; I didn’t know human jaws could unhinge like that, but I guess you learn something new every day.


After wolfing down two donuts he looked over at me, “Why are you being so nice to me?”


The question startled me a little, and I gaped at him like a fish.


“Uh, because it’s the right thing to do?” I managed, biting my lip.


“No it’s not. I tried to steal your stuff, why would buying things for me be the right thing to do?” he sounded almost hostile as he said it, and I could feel my heart rate rising.


“W-what?” I said, feeling nervous. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He seemed to notice my palpitations and softened a bit.


“I’m sorry, I’m just not used to people being so nice to me. Especially when I don’t deserve it.”


I hesitated for a moment, “No, you deserve it.”


“Why?”


I felt my vision blurring a little bit and I looked away so that he wouldn’t see me, I felt ridiculous. Why did he have to make me say it out loud?


“B-because you stayed and talked to me, instead of leaving as soon as you could, just like everyone else.”


There was a silence then, as painful as a million dinners with my mother, and I felt my heart break all over again.


I stood up quickly, turning my back to him, “I think I’ll just go. Finish your breakfast.”


I took one step forward but felt a sticky hand grasp my wrist and I turned around in surprise.


“Hey, hey, not so fast. You haven’t paid yet,” he smiled, his muddy brown eyes twinkling at me. I felt the tears sliding down my cheeks, and I wiped them away with the back of my hand, trying to decide what it was exactly that I felt.


“Yeah, I suppose I should at least wait until I’ve paid.”

Hello, Goodbye.

We sat on the sidewalk for a while, watching the cars drive lazily by, and for once the silence didn’t seem so bad; mostly because I was afraid of what would be said if we started talking.


He must’ve known I had fallen in love with him, and I felt bad that he knew; that my kindness wasn’t just genuine kindness but some kind of ploy to get him to stay with me just a little bit longer. But he didn’t seem to care.


“You know, I’ve met a lot of people. Most of them deserve what they got, and what they don’t got,” he started, laying down on the sidewalk and staring up at the wide blue sky above us, “But I really think you deserve better Angela. And I’m sorry.”


I bit my lip, afraid of what was coming next, “Sorry for what?”


“Just look in your wallet when you get home,” he said, for the first time unable to look me in the eyes, “I found a guy who’s offered to give me a ride. He’s actually waiting for me right now; I just thought that I should say good-bye. You at least deserve that.”


“Thank you,” I whispered, staring at my feet as he stood up.

Forgiveness

When I got home that night I plopped onto the couch and looked in my wallet. All my money was gone.


“Wow what an asshole,” I laughed, the tears streaming down my face, my laughter peppered with pathetic little hiccups. Then I saw the note that was shoved into the side pocket.


Angela,


Don’t grow bitter, people are selfish, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care about you. I stole your money and left you this note because I want you to understand that. Also because I