And then I saw him. He was standing by a painting that drew a crowd. His eyes — those same eyes that once looked up at me with a mixture of hope and hesitance — were now filled with a calm maturity. He had grown into a man, and the resemblance to his late mother was unmistakable.

I approached cautiously, and as I neared, he turned, our eyes meeting for the first time in ten years. There was no anger there, no resentment; only a serene acceptance.

“Hello,” he greeted me with a nod. I struggled to find my voice. Words of apology, regret, and shame fought to surface, but what escaped was merely a whisper, “I’m sorry.”