Shattered Bouquets: A Story of Family, Friendship, and Forgiveness

“You have to answer it, Sarah,” Olivia said, snapping her book shut with a sharp slap. Her eyes, always so gentle, were clouded with that familiar mix of worry and annoyance that only my mother could stir up in the people who cared about me. I groaned, rolling over, knowing that ignoring Mom would just make things worse later. The ringtone—a cheery pop song I used to love—felt like a cruel joke as I finally grabbed my phone and pressed it to my ear.

“Sarah, it’s your dad. He’s… he’s in the hospital again. You need to come home,” Mom’s voice was brittle, like she was balancing on the edge of breaking. My stomach clenched. Not again. Not another crisis.

I sat up so fast I made myself dizzy. Olivia watched me, eyebrows drawn together. I didn’t even have to explain. She just nodded, already reaching for my keys on the nightstand.

The drive back to our small town outside Pittsburgh was a blur of headlights and worry. Olivia drove, glancing at me every so often, her hands tight on the wheel. I pressed my forehead against the window and tried to remember the last time things felt normal at home. Maybe before Dad lost his job, before the drinking, before the fights with Mom that kept me up at night. Before I started college and tried to pretend I was just like everyone else.

The hospital smelled like bleach and disappointment. Mom was sitting in the waiting room, clutching her purse like a life raft. Her mascara was smudged, and I wondered if she’d even slept.

“He asked for you,” she said, and her voice was so small I almost didn’t recognize it. “He keeps saying he’s sorry.”

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream at her, at him, at the universe. But all I felt was tired, the kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes you wonder if you’ll ever feel anything else. Olivia squeezed my hand before I walked into Dad’s room.

He looked older than I remembered, the lines on his face deeper, his eyes sunken. I stood in the doorway, my backpack still slung over one shoulder, and waited for him to say something that would make this better. Instead, he just whispered, “Sarah-bear, I’m sorry. I messed up again.”

I wanted to say it was okay, but it wasn’t. It never was. “Why do you keep doing this to us?” my voice cracked, and I hated how much I sounded like a scared little kid.

He stared at the ceiling. “I wish I knew.”

The days blurred together after that. I missed classes, ignored texts from professors, and tried to keep Mom from falling apart. Olivia stayed with us for a few days, cooking frozen dinners and distracting me with stories from campus. But eventually she had to leave.

It wasn’t until the third night that everything finally boiled over. I found Mom in the kitchen, crying over a pile of unpaid bills.

“We can’t do this anymore, Mom!” I snapped, slamming my fist on the table. “You let him come back every time, and he just… he never changes!”

She looked up at me, her eyes red and raw. “He’s your father, Sarah. He’s sick. I can’t just give up on him.”

The words hung between us, heavy and sharp. I felt something inside me crack.

Later, I sat in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by old trophies and yearbooks, and texted Olivia.

“I don’t know what to do. It’s like I’m drowning here.”

She replied instantly. “You don’t have to fix this alone. Come back when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.”

The next morning, I found Dad sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the sunrise. For the first time, I saw how scared he was—of losing us, of himself, of what he might do next.

“I want to get better,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how.”

I sat down next to him. For a long time, we just watched the sky turn pink and gold. I didn’t have the answers. I didn’t know if things would ever be okay again. But for the first time, I let myself hope.

It took weeks before I went back to school. Before I could laugh with Olivia again, or walk onto campus without feeling like I was made of glass. Dad started going to AA meetings. Mom got a second job at the grocery store. Things were still messy, but we were surviving.

Sometimes, I think about that night, when everything broke apart. I wonder if things had to shatter for us to finally start putting them back together.

Do we ever really forgive the people who hurt us? Or do we just learn to live with the cracks? I’m still figuring it out—and maybe that’s okay.