A Thousand Forgivenesses

Written By: Gabriela Libre

(Gabriela Libre/StoryBytes)

June 17, 2026

MIAMI — There is no cure for living with an abusive father, except forgiveness. I have heard the shattering of keys on a concrete floor, the sound of a fist punching through a door, and the raspy scream that could only come from somewhere deeper than the throat— from the spine, from the veins— more than a “tell me about your day.” Still, I am told I must forgive.

I must forgive even if his eyes go bloodshot red in anger and then soften up the next morning as if nothing happened. I must forgive even when he comes home stumbling from a night with friends and tells me he loves me when he is too drunk to remember whatever keeps him from saying it sober.

This kind of forgiveness has been carefully engineered to ruin a Latina girl. Every woman in my life has been taught to forgive too much. They praise a man for cooking dinner and  “babysitting” his own child. It is expected for  a woman to come home from work and sweep the floors until her back aches, but surely he cannot do the same. He comes home and empties every frustration onto her, like a tangled thread that cannot unwind itself, so it unravels her instead.

Forgiveness, then. What a novelty. Get more of me; I need none of it. Take my hours and my days and my children and my life. Women  clutch their children close to their chest at night and secretly hope that forgiveness will save them. 

Part of me wants to kick them awake. I want to shake the years of patriarchy out of them. I want to scream and shout and throw a tantrum.

Forgiveness has never stopped a belt from swinging, never brought back toys put into a trash bag, never convinced a man to change simply because a woman suffered.

I am not incapable of forgiveness, but I am incapable of victimhood. Forgive your father. Forgive your husband. Forgive your brother. Forgive the man who makes you feel small because he had a hard day. Forgive the man who yells because his father yelled. Forgive the man who hurts because he is hurting.

Forgiveness can be freeing, but it must begin on the survivor’s own terms, not as a chant that drowns out the reality they are living in. It must stop being used as an excuse for complacency. Forgiveness and dignity can exist together. I can forgive a thousand times. I can understand the wounds that shaped them and the choices that brought them here. I can forgive.

And still, I will walk out with forgiveness swelling in my chest. I will walk out knowing that the person I am leaving behind wrote songs about me on the guitar strings and placed warm meals on the table. I will walk out knowing that he loved me. I will walk out knowing that he hurt me. I will walk out knowing that both are true.

I can forgive. I can understand. I can grieve. But I will walk out.