Some people’s stories don’t come with clean endings. They don’t tie up neatly or offer us a clear hero and villain. They just sit with us, heavy, complicated, and unresolved. 

Recently, my family lost someone like that. 

They were the kind of person you wanted at your dinner table. Funny, warm, generous, compassionate. The first to make you laugh. They were deeply loved. And also, if we are telling the whole truth, they made choices that left a long trail of hurt behind them. 

They walked away from a young spouse and child early on. A decision they spent much of their life regretting. There were attempts at rebuilding, but also more instability. Another marriage. Another divorce. Years marked by alcoholism, substance abuse, DUIs, jail time, and consequences that stacked up across states and decades. 

Eventually, they did get sober. In their late fifties, something shifted. But sobriety came late, and the cost of those earlier years remained. Their body was worn down. Their finances were gone. By their sixties, they were largely alone, relying on siblings for shelter and support. 

And while they wanted, really wanted, to reconnect with their child and grandchild, that door never fully reopened. 

That is the part some family members are struggling with. They feel the child should have forgiven more freely. That keeping distance was too harsh. Even cruel. 

But I find myself sitting in the middle, seeing something more complicated. 

Decades of research on parental substance abuse show that addiction does not only harm the person using. It reshapes the whole family system. SAMHSA’s guidance on substance use disorder and family therapy notes that families are both affected by and influential in recovery, and that healing often requires more than sobriety alone. It requires repair, honesty, changed patterns, and time.

For a child, especially one who experienced abandonment, inconsistency, or fear, the wound is not simply, “My parent made mistakes.” The wound is, “The person who was supposed to be safe was not safe for me.” 

That is a hard thing to unlearn. 

Psychologist Dr. Everett Worthington, known for his research on forgiveness, makes an important distinction. Forgiveness and reconciliation are related, but they are not the same. Forgiveness can be an internal release of bitterness. Reconciliation requires restored trust. And trust is not rebuilt by regret alone. It is rebuilt through consistent, trustworthy behavior over time. 

Still, I do believe reconciliation can happen for some relationships. 

I have seen families repair things I thought were beyond repair. Research-backed family care approaches for substance use disorder suggest that when the person in recovery takes responsibility without defensiveness, listens without demanding immediate forgiveness, and allows the harmed family member to set the pace, relationships can improve. Family-based treatment models also show that recovery is stronger when healthy family support is involved, though that support cannot be forced. 

In other words, hope is real. But hope cannot be hurried. 

A parent in recovery may need to say, “I hurt you. I understand why you don’t trust me. I will keep living differently whether or not you are ready to have a relationship with me.” That kind of humility is powerful. It does not guarantee reconciliation, but it creates the safest soil for it. 

And the adult child may need space to decide what healing looks like. For some, it may mean a slow reconnection. A birthday card. A short phone call. A supervised visit with grandchildren. Coffee once a year. For others, healing may mean distance and peace. 

Both can be legitimate. 

So when the opportunity for reconciliation is gone, how do you process and handle the grief? 

First, resist turning grief into a courtroom. Just state the facts. One person created the original fracture. The other inherited the consequences of it.

Second, hold compassion in both directions. Compassion for the parent who changed late, tried hard, and died with some regrets still unresolved. And compassion for the child whose trust was broken so deeply they could not simply will it whole again. 

Third, stop confusing boundaries with bitterness. Sometimes boundaries are what make a person healthy enough to keep loving from a distance. 

My family member’s life held joy and sorrow. Humor and heartbreak. Effort and consequence. And maybe the most honest way to honor them is not to force a tidy ending, but to tell the truth about all of it. 

Even the part where reconciliation was hoped for. Even the part where it did not come.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org