As time marches on, I find myself enveloped in the complexities of adult hypocrisy. It’s a thick fog that seems to cloud judgment and warp reality to suit one’s own narrative. Growing older has peeled back the curtain to reveal a truth that’s both liberating and unsettling: adults don’t always hold the answers. They, too, are improvising through life’s unpredictable script, their actions becoming more transparent and unapologetic with age.

This realization hits hardest when I consider the relationship I had with my father—a relationship marred by the tainted perspectives handed down by the very adults who claimed to guide me. They warned me of his flaws, painting a picture of a man I should guard my heart against. Yet, as the years stack up, I see that those same adults were guilty of similar, if not identical, transgressions.

The struggle I face isn’t with the loss of my father or the strained ties that bound us. Such narratives are not unique in the tapestry of human experience. My battle lies in the newfound knowledge that my mother’s side of the family, once perceived as the bastion of virtue, was equally flawed. They committed the same mistakes they implored me to neither forgive nor forget in my father.

The judgment, the half-truths, and the outright omissions of fact—it’s a mire of deceit that begs the question: How could they stand so firmly in their righteousness while casting my father as the perennial villain? He was condemned for his humanity, for his errors, and when he stumbled, there was no hand to help him up. We broke him, collectively and remorselessly, without a backward glance.

In this reflection, I grapple not with forgiveness but with understanding. The double standard of absolving a mother while vilifying a father speaks volumes about the selective nature of our grace. It’s a poignant reminder that in the end, we are all fallible beings, navigating the murky waters of life’s choices and consequences.

Is there a simmering anger within me? Undoubtedly, yes. For 37 years, I navigated life under the impression that my father was a man to be scorned, when in truth, he was merely human. The narrative I was fed—that his errors were unforgivable—shaped me into who I am today. Now, I can’t help but ponder if I might have been different without that influence.

Life’s rich tapestry, observed through the actions of others and the wisdom gleaned from countless books, has broadened my understanding of the human condition. Yet, the lens through which I view life and people has been irrevocably colored by the strife between my mother and father.

I believe he’s out there, somewhere, with a newfound comprehension of my thoughts and emotions—a connection we lacked in life. And in this belief, I find peace, knowing he’s aware of my forgiveness. After all, what I once thought needed absolution was nothing more than the ordinary failings of a man.

As I forge my path, I carry with me the lessons of this dichotomy, hoping to break the cycle of hypocrisy for the generations to come. It’s a journey toward a more compassionate and equitable understanding of forgiveness, where the scales of judgment are balanced, and every soul is given the chance to rise from their missteps.