My dad was a terrible father. Dreadful. But he had a very

Host: The evening had settled like a slow exhale, the kind that carried the weight of years. The sky outside was the color of smoke, a deep indigo bleeding into the lights of the city below. From the wide windows of a small apartment on the fifth floor, you could hear the distant hum of traffic — the endless pulse of lives continuing.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee, old books, and the soft decay of memory. The walls were lined with framed photographs, some fading at the edges — smiles caught mid-laughter, a few blurred faces, and one picture of a man no one talked about anymore.

Jack sat by the window, his elbows on his knees, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Jeeny stood by the kitchen counter, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. The soft light from a single lamp painted their shadows long and uneven across the wooden floor.

Jeeny: “Mark Billingham once said, ‘My dad was a terrible father. Dreadful. But he had a very difficult childhood… He never knew who his father was. So he had a very different attitude to family and kids. I don’t have any issues. I’m not suffering some secret angst.’”

Jack: “That’s an interesting way to forgive someone — by deciding you don’t need to be broken to do it.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, husky — not angry, just heavy with the slow gravity of someone who had carried silence for too long. Smoke curled upward, dissolving into the soft amber light.

Jeeny: “Forgiveness doesn’t always mean forgetting, Jack. Sometimes it just means you’ve made peace with the wound.”

Jack: “Or you’ve learned how to talk around it.”

Jeeny: “You think Billingham was lying? You think he still suffered, just hid it better?”

Jack: “I think we all hide it better. Especially the ones who say they’re fine. The world rewards people who smile through the wreckage.”

Host: A faint sirensong drifted from the street below, the city’s distant voice echoing up through the glass. Jeeny’s eyes softened; she moved to sit opposite Jack, her mug between her hands, the steam brushing her cheek like a ghost’s touch.

Jeeny: “You had a father like that, didn’t you?”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah. A man who thought love was something you rationed. Like heat in winter.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are — not bitter, not broken. You built a life that doesn’t repeat his.”

Jack: “That’s the trick, isn’t it? You spend half your life running from a man who raised you, and the other half realizing you’ve borrowed his shadow.”

Jeeny: “You can’t outrun what made you. But you can choose what you pass on.”

Host: Her words hung between them, delicate as thread. Jack shifted, his eyes drawn again to the photograph on the wall — his father, younger, grinning beneath a cheap wool coat, holding a fishing rod he never used.

Jack: “He had that same look Billingham talked about — someone who never really belonged to anyone. I guess that kind of emptiness hardens a person. Makes them think affection’s a trick.”

Jeeny: “So you think he loved you — just didn’t know how to show it?”

Jack: “No. I think he wanted to. But wanting isn’t the same as doing.”

Host: The rain began again, soft at first, tapping against the glass like the heartbeat of some distant regret. The room darkened slightly, the glow of the lamp deepening into something warmer, almost forgiving.

Jeeny: “My mother used to say, ‘We’re all just rehearsing our parents’ mistakes until we learn our own lines.’”

Jack: “Smart woman.”

Jeeny: “She was, until she started believing her own lines didn’t matter.”

Jack: “That’s what pain does. Makes you think your story ends where theirs began.”

Jeeny: “And it doesn’t?”

Jack: “No. It shouldn’t. Otherwise, we’re just echoes.”

Host: Jack took another slow drag, the smoke catching the light like mist. He exhaled, eyes fixed on nothing, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Jack: “He used to yell when I cried. Said boys don’t cry — said it was weakness. So I stopped. But you know what happens when you stop crying? You stop feeling. You just learn to function.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he learned too. Maybe that’s what he thought strength looked like.”

Jack: “Yeah. And look where that got him — an empty house, two bottles a week, and a son who visits once a year.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still visit.”

Jack: “Out of duty.”

Jeeny: “No. Out of memory. Out of love you’ll never admit to.”

Host: Jack looked at her sharply, but her expression held — calm, certain, compassionate. His jaw loosened slightly, a muscle twitching near his temple.

Jack: “You think forgiveness makes people whole, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it stops the bleeding.”

Jack: “And what if the wound is part of who you are?”

Jeeny: “Then you carry it differently.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked louder now, as if time itself had leaned closer to listen. The rain was steadier, pooling on the sill, sliding down like threads of quiet remembrance.

Jeeny: “There’s something powerful in what Billingham said — to admit someone failed you, but not to define yourself by that failure. That’s not denial. That’s freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The freedom to stop being a victim of someone else’s pain.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s necessary.”

Host: Jack set the cigarette down in the ashtray, watching the ember fade to ash. He leaned back, rubbing a hand across his face.

Jack: “I used to think if I became everything he wasn’t, I’d win. That I’d break the cycle. But it turns out, you can’t win against ghosts.”

Jeeny: “You don’t win against them, Jack. You outgrow them.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but steady — a truth spoken without pity. Jack looked at her for a long moment, then laughed quietly — not with humor, but with the weary sound of realization.

Jack: “You know, for someone who’s never met him, you talk like you understand him.”

Jeeny: “I understand what damage looks like when it learns how to walk upright.”

Host: The lamp flickered once. Outside, the rain slowed to a gentle drizzle. The city lights blurred through the glass, turning into streaks of quiet gold.

Jeeny: “You can forgive someone and still acknowledge they hurt you. That’s what Billingham meant, I think — that compassion doesn’t erase the past; it reframes it.”

Jack: “So you keep the scar, but stop picking at it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned forward again, elbows on knees, and for the first time that night, the sharpness in his eyes softened into something fragile.

Jack: “He used to stand at the doorway when I left, just staring. Never said goodbye. I hated him for that. But now… I think he just didn’t know how to ask me to stay.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s his version of love — silent, clumsy, incomplete, but love all the same.”

Host: The room was still now, except for the faint sound of rain returning — softer, almost tender. Jack nodded slowly, as if accepting something not yet comfortable, but true.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe forgiveness isn’t about excusing him. Maybe it’s just about refusing to carry him like a wound anymore.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of healing.”

Host: The lamplight caught the edge of Jeeny’s face as she smiled, and for a fleeting moment, the heaviness in the room broke — not gone, but gentled.

Jack reached for the photograph on the wall and turned it slightly toward the light.

Jack: “He wasn’t a good man. But maybe he tried. Maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes trying is the closest we ever get to redemption.”

Host: The rain outside faded into stillness. Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, neither speaking. The city below hummed softly, unaware.

And in that small apartment, where old shadows had lingered for years, something subtle shifted — not forgiveness, not forgetting, but peace. The kind that comes when you realize that even the broken parts of love are still love.

The lamp flickered once more, then steadied — a fragile light, but enough.