The First Step Of Forgiveness

Listen, I'm not proud of everything. Especially not the time I tried to "make it right" with Mateo. Three years ago, his brother got caught in a crossfire I caused. I’d been high, arguing with a rival, and a stray bullet took his little brother. I never apologized. Not to Mateo. Not to his mom. Just ran. Last month, I saw Mateo at the youth center, working on a mural. I thought, This is it. The first step of forgiveness. I’ll own it. I pulled him aside, voice shaky. "Mateo, I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m sorry for what I did. For your brother. I’ve been clean for fifteen years, trying to be better—” He didn’t flinch. He just looked at me like I’d spit on his grave. "You think saying sorry fixes it? You think you get to decide when it’s fixed?" Then he walked away. Left me standing there, my words hanging like rotten fruit. The aftermath? I sat in my car for an hour, shaking. Not from the cold. From shame. I’d made it about me—my "clean" record, my "trying." Not about him. Not about the kid who died. I thought I was being deep. I was just being selfish. But here’s what I learned: Forgiveness isn’t a thing you do to someone else. It’s a thing you don’t do to yourself. I spent years thinking my apology was the gift I’d give Mateo. It wasn’t. It was a mirror I held up to my own guilt. I failed because I forgot: the first step isn’t my words. It’s listening to the pain that’s already there. Not my redemption. His. I still see Mateo at the center. I don’t say a word. I just hand him a paintbrush. And I wait. You’re not too far gone. But you also don’t owe me your forgiveness. — Francisco Meyer, walking a different path

— Francisco Meyer, still earning the second chance