Mom and Dad, Your Apology Came Too Late
When I picked up the final course of my antidepressants and was about to leave, I ran into my biological parents, who were at the hospital to give a lecture.
Five years had passed since we'd last seen each other, yet my father recognized me at a glance. Disbelief flickered across his face.
"Your illness... still isn't better?"
I said nothing and continued walking toward my room.
"How did your life end up like this?" My father looked at me with obvious anguish, his eyes reddening.
"Julian, your mother and brother miss you. Come home with me."
I stopped in my tracks and slowly rolled up the sleeves I wore year-round, no matter the season.
"That's your home," I said quietly. "It stopped being mine a long time ago."
Hundreds of scars crisscrossed both of my arms.
Countless emergency rescues.
Countless nights spent fighting through unbearable pain.
Long ago, all of it had worn away every trace of love and resentment I once felt toward my parents.
Now, I was finally leaving the illness behind, and I had a new family.
For the rest of my life, all I wanted was to live well.