My father is staring at me, hard.
It has been years since we spent any time alone. I had been a judgmental daughter, belligerent, unable to accommodate the shades of grey in a life that I was convinced could only consist of black or white, right or wrong
I had grown into an adult, still believing my teenage views.
The past few months had ripped the rug from underneath my feet.
“Not a traitor? Not a traitor?”
I see him with new eyes. He is just a man. Just a human being like the rest of us. He is not a monster, just like my mother was not a traitor. They had paid high prices for living through times when making the right decision depended on so many inconceivable and unimaginable horrors.
And I had judged them both with hindsight.
“No. Not a traitor.”
His body sags. I can’t tell if this is with relief, or despair.
He reaches out a hand, an old hand. He has aged since we last met. I take his hand and my index finger caresses the thin gold wedding band he still wears despite everything.
“Thank you for telling me, Celine. It will never bring her back and you may never forgive me for taking your mother away so brutally, but at least she never betrayed us.”
Semantics, I think. It is all but semantics.
Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. This is the finale in my six part story which began in the midst of World War Two. Here are the fiveprevious instalments in order, if you want to indulge! Croix de Guerre, Collborateur, Oubliette, Verité and Honneur.
I hope you enjoy this week’s entry- and please do visit Magpie Tales for amazing poetry and prose!