I think there are different levels of forgiveness.

Host: The sky over the coastal town was heavy with mist, the sea whispering softly against the rocks below. The café on the pier was nearly empty, save for two figures by the window — Jack and Jeeny. The faint light of morning spilled across the table, glinting off a half-finished cup of coffee and a plate of untouched toast.

Host: Outside, the ocean moved like memory — restless, cold, eternal. Inside, the air held something unspoken — the tension of two souls circling an old wound.

Host: On a napkin between them, Jeeny had written a simple line from Catherine Oxenberg:
“I think there are different levels of forgiveness.”

Jack: (staring out at the waves) “Different levels, huh? Sounds like someone trying to make excuses for not really forgiving at all.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Or maybe it means forgiveness isn’t just one thing. Maybe it’s a process — a journey. Sometimes we forgive with our minds, sometimes with our hearts, and sometimes… not at all, not yet.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, carrying the sound of distant gulls. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes heavy, his voice low — like gravel softened by regret.

Jack: “You know what I hate about forgiveness? People act like it’s noble. Like it’s some moral badge you earn. But sometimes forgiving means pretending something unforgivable never happened. That’s not strength — that’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness isn’t pretending, Jack. It’s remembering without letting it poison you.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Easy for you to say.”

Jeeny: “Is it?”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly — a small fracture, barely visible but deeply felt. She looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the rim of the cup as if the warmth there might steady her.

Jack: “You ever really forgive someone who broke you, Jeeny? I’m not talking about apologies over coffee. I mean the kind of betrayal that splits your life in half.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: (sharply) “Then you’re a better person than me.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m not. I just learned that forgiveness doesn’t always mean reconciliation. Sometimes it means letting go in silence. Sometimes it’s forgiving someone who’ll never know you did.”

Host: The light shifted — clouds drifted across the sun, leaving the café dim, the room tinted with a faint blue-grey sorrow.

Jack: “So you’re saying you forgive for yourself, not for them?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because hate is heavy. It eats you alive from the inside. Forgiving someone doesn’t mean you excuse what they did — it just means you stop drinking the poison hoping they’ll die.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s a good line. A little dramatic, but good.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because it’s true.”

Host: A pause stretched between them. Outside, a child’s laughter echoed faintly down the pier — fragile and pure, like a reminder of something once lost. Jack looked at Jeeny, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “You ever heard of Simon Wiesenthal?”

Jeeny: “The Nazi hunter?”

Jack: “Yeah. He wrote The Sunflower. A dying SS officer begged him for forgiveness for killing Jews. Wiesenthal listened… and then walked away without saying a word. People debate to this day whether he was right. That’s what forgiveness really is — a war between justice and mercy.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think?”

Jack: “I think he was right. Some things shouldn’t be forgiven.”

Jeeny: “But he still listened. That was its own kind of forgiveness. He gave that man the dignity of being heard, even if he couldn’t give him absolution.”

Host: The sound of the waves grew louder, as though the sea itself wanted to enter the argument. The café’s ceiling fan spun lazily above them, stirring the smell of coffee and salt.

Jack: “So what are these ‘levels’ then? You forgive the small stuff first — the lies, the insults — then what? You graduate to the big ones? The betrayals, the abuse, the violence?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the size of the wound. It’s about where you are when you face it. Sometimes forgiveness means saying, ‘I can’t forgive you now, but maybe one day I will.’ That’s still a level. It’s honesty.”

Jack: (dryly) “And honesty fixes what’s broken?”

Jeeny: “No. But it stops you from pretending it’s not broken.”

Host: Jack looked down at his cup. The coffee had gone cold, a thin film forming on top — neglected, like the things people avoid saying aloud.

Jack: “You know, when my mother left, I used to imagine forgiving her. I used to think if I saw her again, I’d tell her it’s okay. That I understand. But now… I think I just wanted peace, not forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Peace is a form of forgiveness too, Jack. It’s just quieter.”

Jack: “Then maybe forgiveness is cowardice disguised as healing.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No. Cowardice is revenge. Forgiveness is choosing not to let pain define you.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft but steady, tracing lines down the window. The rhythm of it filled the pauses between their words — like punctuation written by the weather itself.

Jack: “You ever forgive yourself, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “That’s the hardest one. The highest level, maybe. To forgive yourself for what you couldn’t change… or what you did when you didn’t know better.”

Jack: “So even forgiveness has a hierarchy?”

Jeeny: “In a way. The first level is forgiving mistakes. The second is forgiving wounds. The third is forgiving the silence — the moments you did nothing, said nothing, when someone needed you. That’s the one that haunts you.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting hers. There was something there — not judgment, but understanding. The kind that only comes from two people who’ve both lived with ghosts.

Jack: “And the final level?”

Jeeny: “Forgiving yourself for still feeling anger, even after you thought you were done.”

Jack: (quietly) “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: (soft smile) “It is. But so is carrying resentment.”

Host: The rain turned heavier now, the café awash in silver light and sound. The waiter passed by, refilling cups in silence, his movements gentle, as if afraid to disturb something sacred.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people drink — it’s easier to numb than forgive.”

Jeeny: “Numbness isn’t peace. It’s a pause before the pain comes back.”

Jack: (half-laughing) “You always have an answer, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. Just a different kind of silence.”

Host: She looked out the window, watching the raindrops merge and slide down like tears finding each other. The world outside blurred — the sea, the sky, the horizon — all indistinguishable, like memories blending into forgiveness.

Jack: “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe there are levels. Maybe forgiveness isn’t a decision — it’s erosion. It wears you down slowly until anger has nothing left to cling to.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack. That’s forgiveness too — when you stop needing justice to heal.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Then I forgive her. My mother. Not because she deserves it. But because I don’t want to carry her anymore.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s the beginning.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to fade, the clouds parting just enough for a sliver of sunlight to spill through — thin but real, touching the edge of their table.

Host: Jack stared at the light as if seeing it for the first time.

Jack: “You think it ever gets easier?”

Jeeny: “No. But it gets lighter.”

Host: The waves outside calmed, the sea’s voice gentler now, almost forgiving in its own rhythm. The two sat in silence, not as adversaries, but as survivors of the same truth.

Host: On the napkin, Jeeny’s words remained, the ink slightly smudged from the moisture in the air but still legible — fragile, human, and profound:
“I think there are different levels of forgiveness.”

Host: And as the light slowly grew stronger, they both realized that maybe forgiveness wasn’t about forgetting or fixing — but about finally allowing the heart to rest.