The cheating, if you want to call it that (frankly, I don’t; let’s call it abuse; let’s call it hate), was such a foreign concept then.
I had seen it in movies once or twice. The story in which the person cheats, but the counterpart eventually forgives them for whatever reason. They could have been “under the influence,” made a lapse in judgment, lost their mind, succumbed to the wickedness of Lucifer himself.
But, to put it colloquially, this ain’t the movies. And while my mother certainly did forgive him, and invite him back, it wasn’t anywhere near redemptive. Redemption is for the movies. For literature. For those in want of redemption.
He didn’t want it. Not truly, anyhow. He claimed to want it. He professed his pain, his anguish, his sorrow for being such a let-down, a fallen sinner, “only human,” and all of that nonsense.
Hell, he claimed such things, to want forgiveness, to be redeemed.
He wept to be seen. Tears for the outsiders. Forgiveness from the guilty altruists, the pseudo-martyrs.
Meanwhile, he sneered inside.
After all, he’s only human. They’re supposed to sin. Be forgiven.
Not anymore, I say. Take your tramps, your convenient faith, your illegitimacy.
I am done with you.