Prodigal Son
There is an old story, the story of the Prodigal Son. In the story, a son betrays his father and wastes away everything his father has given him. When he returns to beg for forgiveness, his father runs to greet him with open arms.
No one seems to understand why we do it, Sarah, Alison, and I. No one seems to get why we open our arms to people who have betrayed us, damaged us, nearly destroyed us. Again and again and again.
Helena murdered our sisters, her sisters, one by one. We knew of a few, but found out later how grossly we had underestimated her. She had laid our genetic tree to waste, picked us off one by one, without an iota of remorse. Even today, she struggles to feel sorrow for those bullets, for the lives she stole.
Yet we care for her, we are patient and kind. We love her, because she's one of us, flesh and blood. Because we are the first ones to see her heart and to teach her how to use it.
Mrs. S and Delphine, Donnie and Paul. They all betrayed us as well. Time after time, they loved us then lied to us, broke our trust and our hearts.
Yet we welcome them into our homes, our beds, our lives. Because when we are at our worst, when we're standing on the edge between life and death, between whole and pieces, they are there, pulling us back. We choose to trust them again. Every single time.
And now we're prepared to do it again. Rachel brought us to our knees, made us beg for our lives, for the lives of those we love. She tore us to bits, shattered our faith, watched as we died. We could have killed her, we have those resources. We could have saved ourselves so much pain.
The night Sarah saved Rachel's life, the night she redirected Helena's gun, she called me in tears. Why, Cos? Why do we do this? Again and again, why?
But how do you kill someone who wears your face? How do you kill her when you know she's as broken as you are? We were all born out of fallacy and fed on lies. Rachel didn't see us for who we are because she was raised to see us as nothing. She was raised to see herself as nothing, as a tool to be used, unworthy of care.
That isn't acceptable to us. We're fighting a battle for our rights, to prove our humanity, our worth, our souls. How could we turn our backs on her when she is the most shining example of our mistreatment, of this injustice? When she was raised to be inhuman by the very people who created us?
Our lives were built on sand and it's slipping. We've made choices, good and bad, and those choices are ours to bear. But there are other hands at work here, hands that have molded us, twisted us, sent us down dark paths. Those of us who have come through the other end need to be the light for those still lost in the black.
You see, prodigal means wasteful. In the story, this is an apt descriptor of the son - wastes his father's money and wastes his father's love. Some would say it is also an apt descriptor of the father, who wastes his love on a son who doesn't deserve it.
But love isn't ever wasted, is it? I think we know that best of all. We've all been the prodigal son before. Now it's our turn to be the father.
Family is slim and scarce, and ought to be held onto.