I have a lot of anger built up in me from my childhood. My wife

Host: The night hung heavy above the small house, its roof glistening under the faint streetlight after a long, merciless rain. Thunder rumbled in the far-off distance, soft and tired, like the voice of something that had wept itself empty.

Host: Inside, the living room was dimly lit by a single lamp, its light a trembling halo against the worn walls. A family photograph sat crooked on the mantel, the glass cracked through the middle but the faces still smiling. On the sofa, Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tight as though holding the last thread of his patience. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her eyes wide with quiet empathy, the kind that doesn’t intrude.

Host: Between them, on the table, was a handwritten note torn from a notebook—its words uneven, written in the trembling scrawl of confession:
“I have a lot of anger built up in me from my childhood. My wife and kids are the only ones who give me peace in this world.” — Derrick Lewis.

Jack: (staring at the note) It’s strange, isn’t it? That peace and rage can live in the same body—like roommates who’ve stopped speaking but still share a wall.

Jeeny: (softly) I think that’s how most of us survive, Jack. We build walls between the parts of ourselves we can’t make peace with.

Jack: (bitterly) I’ve tried, Jeeny. God knows I’ve tried. But it’s like my childhood keeps breathing under my skin. You grow up thinking you’ve escaped it—and then one wrong word, one slammed door, and it’s back. The same heat in your chest. The same fury that has no name.

Jeeny: (quietly) Anger is memory that never got heard.

Host: The lamp light trembled as if agreeing. Rain began again, slow and rhythmic, tapping against the windowpane like a ghost knocking gently, asking to be let in.

Jack: (gritting his teeth) You think I don’t hear it? Every time I raise my voice at my son, I can feel my father’s shadow behind me—smiling. He used to say I’d turn out just like him. Some nights, I believe he was right.

Jeeny: (leaning forward) Then change the ending, Jack. You can’t erase his voice, but you can rewrite yours.

Jack: (bitterly) That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up with a man who thought silence was weakness and pain was discipline.

Jeeny: (quietly, but firm) No. But I’ve loved people who did. And I’ve seen what that silence does—it buries boys alive inside men’s bodies.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked slowly, steady as breath. The room seemed to shrink around the two of them, the air thick with something raw and human—anger, sorrow, the slow ache of recognition.

Jack: (rubbing his face) You know what’s funny? My wife says I’m gentle. My kids—God, they look at me like I’m safe. (laughs hollowly) They don’t know the storm they’re standing in.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe they do. Maybe they see the storm—and the man who’s fighting to calm it.

Jack: (quietly) I don’t want them to see the version of me I grew up with.

Jeeny: Then they won’t. Because you already know what it looks like to break a child’s spirit—and you’d rather burn yourself than repeat it.

Host: Jack’s eyes glimmered in the low light, a mixture of exhaustion and something close to fear. He looked toward the photograph on the mantel, the crack running cleanly between his own face and that of his daughter, as if dividing past from future.

Jack: (whispering) You ever feel like peace is borrowed time? Like you’re just waiting for your anger to ruin it?

Jeeny: (softly) No, Jack. Peace isn’t borrowed—it’s earned, one small act at a time. Every time you hold back the shout, every time you listen instead of striking—you’re earning it.

Jack: (closing his eyes) I still feel it though. That pressure. Like it’s always there, waiting for me to slip.

Jeeny: That’s the thing about pain—it doesn’t vanish. It transforms. If you let it.

Host: The rain fell harder now, a steady percussion against the roof. The lamp buzzed faintly, throwing a shadow that made the room look like an old photograph in sepia tones.

Jack: (after a long pause) I remember one night when I was ten. I spilled soup on the floor. My father didn’t say a word. He just stood up, slow, and then—(his voice cracks)—his hand came down so hard it broke the bowl in half. My mother didn’t even look. Just kept eating. Like it was normal.

Jeeny: (whispering) I’m sorry, Jack.

Jack: (shaking his head) Don’t be. It taught me what not to be. (a long silence) But sometimes I still feel him in me, like a ghost wearing my face.

Jeeny: (reaching across the table) You’re not your father. You’re the man who remembers. And memory is the first form of resistance.

Jack: (quietly) You think love is enough to fix that kind of damage?

Jeeny: (softly) No. But it’s the only thing strong enough to hold it while you do the work.

Host: The rain softened to a murmur. Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting Jeeny’s. Something in him trembled, like a locked door finally hearing the sound of its own key.

Jack: (hoarsely) My wife says I’m at peace when I’m with them. But it’s not peace—it’s... stillness. Like for a moment, I forget the noise inside. I’d give anything to make that feeling permanent.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) That’s not stillness, Jack. That’s healing. Peace doesn’t erase the noise—it teaches you how to live beside it.

Jack: (softly) I don’t want to pass it down, Jeeny. The anger. The fear. The coldness. I’d rather die with it than let my son carry it.

Jeeny: (firmly) Then you won’t. Because the moment you speak it, it loses power. The silence is what breeds inheritance, not the pain itself.

Host: The light flickered once more, then steadied, filling the room with a warm, forgiving glow. The photograph on the mantel seemed almost to breathe—faces smiling through the crack, undivided by the past for a fleeting instant.

Jack: (looking toward it) My father never apologized. Not once. He died before I could ask him why.

Jeeny: (gently) Then maybe you’re the apology, Jack. Maybe every bedtime story you tell, every laugh you share, every gentle hand on your son’s shoulder—that’s the world’s way of saying sorry through you.

Jack: (voice breaking) I never thought of it that way.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s because forgiveness doesn’t always look like words. Sometimes it looks like continuation—with kindness instead of cruelty.

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands trembling slightly. Outside, the storm began to drift away, leaving behind the faint smell of wet earth and quiet redemption.

Jack: (murmuring) My wife once told me I sleep like a child when the kids are home. Like some part of me believes I’m safe.

Jeeny: (nodding) That’s because you are. You built the peace you never had. You became the shelter you once needed.

Host: A long silence filled the room, but it was no longer heavy—it was alive, breathing, warm. The lamp’s glow spread softly across the floor, painting both of them in gold and shadow, like forgiveness taking human form.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe that’s what Derrick Lewis meant. Not that his family erases the anger—but that they give it meaning. That love doesn’t silence the storm—it just gives you a reason to weather it.

Jeeny: (smiling) Yes. Because peace isn’t the absence of pain—it’s the presence of love strong enough to hold it.

Host: The rain stopped completely now, leaving only the distant hum of a streetlight buzzing like a heartbeat. Jack stood and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside. Outside, the world gleamed—wet, reborn, forgiving.

Jack: (softly) Maybe that’s what healing really is. Not forgetting what happened, but living so your children never have to ask what it felt like.

Jeeny: (whispering) Exactly. That’s the truest kind of strength. Not the kind that fights—but the kind that breaks the cycle.

Host: The light dimmed, and the house fell quiet, save for the faint sound of breathing—two people sitting in the soft aftermath of honesty.

Host: And as the night thinned toward dawn, the world outside gleamed with promise. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered—not as thunder, but as tenderness.

Host: And for the first time in years, Jack felt it—not silence, not anger, not even peace—just a small, steady warmth in his chest. The kind that comes not from forgetting the past, but from finally forgiving it.