Not everyone who has survived a traumatic, abusive past gets the Hollywood happy ending

My father was cruel and abusive. When I say he was a bad person. I mean, really bad — not just “troubled but quirky” like the father in the movie and characters like him are often portrayed. No, my father was the type of bad that even the state police, who would show up frequently to arrest him (veteran police officers who had obviously seen their share of awful people), seemed disgusted with him and would often “accidentally” be extra rough when throwing him into the police car. He wasn’t a brilliant-yet-misunderstood genius. He was a sadistic person who did evil things.

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His was the kind of bad that, once I grew up, if I had heard he had moved to my town, I would have immediately moved away. In fact, one of the reasons we moved so often during my childhood — roughly 70 times by the time I graduated high school — was to escape him, his wreckage, and the damage he inflicted upon all of us.
So, no, I didn’t rush to his deathbed. I didn’t go to his funeral, either. Although calling it a “funeral” would be a stretch. His body was deposited in the Brooklyn church in a cardboard box prior to the cremation, in case anyone wanted to pay their respects. Few took advantage of the opportunity. At the time, several people urged me to attend his funeral, assuring me that I’d later regret it if I didn’t. I needed “closure,” they warned.
Years later, I have never regretted that decision for even a moment. In fact, I couldn’t even tell you the year of his death — or the season during which it occurred. That’s how little significance the event had in my life.
To anyone who’s ever shared their unsolicited (but, I’m sure, well-intentioned) advice for adult children in situations like mine: Being pressured or forced to reconcile with an abusive figure just because they are dying, or to attend the funeral of a person who inflicted abuse and trauma on them can often end up feeling like a cruel form of group-gaslighting. Lots of people believe that whole “don’t speak ill of the dead” mantra — I don’t abide by it, personally — so suddenly everyone wants to rewrite history just because death is imminent. Doing so means essentially erasing the trauma, abuse, or mistreatment suffered at someone else’s hands. So, please, though you might mean well, don’t do that to anyone. It just adds more emotional pain and stress to what they’re already carrying.
Being pressured or forced to reconcile with an abusive figure just because they are dying, or to attend the funeral of a person who inflicted abuse and trauma on them can often end up feeling like a cruel form of group-gaslighting.
I am happy for the author and anyone like her who did get that elusive final admission of guilt and act of contrition. I applaud her generosity in accepting the apology and granting forgiveness.
But for those to whom that moment may never come — or for whom opening that door may reopen the scars of painful wounds — this shouldn’t be an obligatory milestone. Setting up that expectation does a disservice to those who have created their own necessary paths to healing. It also puts the responsibility to “make things right” on the shoulders of the abused, who already have a heavy burden to carry.