On Christmas Eve 1978, during midnight Mass at St. Lawrence the Martyr in Santa Clara, California, I forgave my mother’s boyfriend.
I was an 18-year-old college freshman home for the holidays. “Be nice to him. Give him a chance,” my mother had urged me. Thinking about shaking this man’s hand and sharing a blessing with him, after all he had done to my mother, made me ill. Despite my reluctance, I wanted her to be happy. So when the priest commanded us to exchange the sign of peace, I looked up at Dan and said, “May peace be with you.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
Mom turned to me and smiled, squeezing my hand. “Gracias, mija,” she whispered.
Three weeks later, he killed her and himself.
