On thanksgiving, my uncle blocked the door and said, “you’re not family anymore — leave,” i saw my mom laughing behind him, handing my seat to my sister’s boyfriend; i just nodded, got back in my car… and sent the message i’d been saving for months; five minutes later, half the table stood up — and walked out.

“I can’t fix what happened,” he said eventually. “But I wanted you to know. I see it now. I wish I’d said something sooner. I wish I’d stepped in.”

I believed he meant it.

I really did.

But part of me also knew that his regret didn’t undo years of complicity. He hadn’t been cruel, but he’d been silent.

And sometimes silence is just a different kind of wound.

“I appreciate you saying that,” I said. “But I don’t know what you want from me.”

He exhaled.

“I don’t know either. I just… I guess I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing better,” I said truthfully. “Now that I’m out of it. Now that I’ve stopped pretending they’ll change.”

He nodded again.

“They’re planning damage control.”

“Of course they are.”

“They think if they just wait it out, people will move on.”