Forgiveness isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. Mine began on an escalator at Berlin Brandenburg airport. It was a Sunday afternoon. I was heading up to the check-in counters for my return flight to Istanbul, where I’ve lived for the past few years. On the other side, people were heading down – fresh off flights into Berlin. I was daydreaming, my eyes drifting across bags and figures, when I paused at a brown leather bag and a light linen suit. Charming travel outfit, I thought. Relaxed. Timeless. Someone must’ve had a lovely weekend, maybe somewhere on the Mediterranean. I only saw the man’s face as he passed me – and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
I knew him. He was my father.
