Finding Us (Christian Interracial Romance)

When Forgiveness Finds a Place

Jeremy

Morning comes too soon. I roll over in bed, the blinds spilling thin lines of light across my face. My body feels heavy, like I ran a marathon in my sleep. My brain won't stop replaying the image of Dad's hands, bruised and bloodied, and the way Cecilia's voice cracked when I told her everything.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A calendar reminder. Right—session with Drew. I groan, thumb sliding across the screen. "Guess it's therapy time," I mutter to myself.

I tap the FaceTime icon and Drew's face fills the screen a second later. He's wearing a faded navy hoodie, hair sticking up in three different directions. Behind him is a bookshelf stacked with theology texts, a Funko Pop Batman figurine, and what looks like an empty mug labeled World's Okayest Therapist.

"Jeremy Miller," he greets, voice even but with that dry humor tucked underneath. "You look like you wrestled a bear last night."

I snort. "Close. My dad wrestled Damien O'Brien."

Drew raises his brows, leans closer to the camera. "Ah. So the devil finally took a few punches."

I blink at him. "You're... not going to tell me that's horrifying?"

"Oh, it's absolutely horrifying," Drew replies, sipping from his empty mug like he forgot it's empty. "But I also understand it. You and Cecilia—both of you have been under Damien's shadow for too long. He's been a puppeteer, pulling strings with lies, fear, mockery. Spiritually speaking, that man has been the devil in your story for years. And when you were lost? You were under that influence without even realizing it."

His words hit me harder than I expect. My throat tightens. "Yeah. I... I let him shape me. He pushed me into those dark roles, convinced me I was only good for playing murderers, monsters. And I believed him."

"But now?" Drew leans back, expression softening. "Now you're free. You're walking with Jesus. And part of freedom is seeing clearly who the enemy was—and still is. Doesn't mean violence is the answer, but it does mean you don't have to carry guilt for what your dad did."

I rub my face, groaning. "Are you sure? Because I feel guilty enough for both of us."

"Jeremy," Drew says, tone sharp enough to snap me out of it, "you didn't throw a punch. You told the truth. You're choosing a different path. That's the work. That's the healing. Let your father own his choices. You don't have to carry his sins."

I let the silence hang for a moment, just breathing. Finally, I nod. "Thanks, Drew."

He smirks. "Don't thank me yet. Your homework for the day: read the Bible, eat something that isn't cereal, take a nap, and tell your dad you love him. That's harder than it sounds."

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble, but my lips tug into a smile.

**********

Later, I wander downstairs, phone still warm in my hand. The smell of coffee and toast drifts through the house. I hear voices in the backyard, so I slide the glass door open.

Dad's out there with Athena's fiance, Ryan, standing over a patch of grass. Dad's sleeves are rolled up, showing the faint bruises still on his forearms. He's holding a stick, demonstrating something.

"...see, you balance it just so, then flick your wrist like this. That's a Midwestern trick. We used to do it back in Missouri before your parents even met."

Ryan laughs, trying and failing to copy the motion. Athena sits nearby, sipping orange juice, clearly amused while Annaliese is sitting on Athena's lap, sipping through her juice box of apple juice.