I want to be vulnerable here—because this is something so many of us carry, yet so few of us talk about. The complicated, aching relationship between parent and child. I share the wounds that millions, maybe even billions, quietly live with. Wounds that don’t always bleed but linger just beneath the surface. They show up in the silences, in the tension, in the longing for something softer, safer. These are deep cuts—the kind formed by love, neglect, expectation, and misunderstanding all tangled together. I don't know if “permanent” is the right word, but they are lasting. And yet, I still believe they can be healed. Not quickly, not easily—but with effort, with honesty, with a willingness to face the pain and treat it. Healing is possible. But it asks for patience. It asks for truth. And maybe most of all, it asks us to be brave enough to begin.

The Last of Us II on Max wrecked me—especially the episode “The Price.” I didn’t expect it to hit so hard, but it cracked something open in me. It’s in this episode that Ellie learns the truth Joel kept from her all those years. That her life—her death—might’ve meant a cure for humanity. That she might’ve been the key to saving a world drowning in infection and grief. It’s devastating, because it reframes everything: her purpose, her pain, and his love for her. When Joel and Ellie go on patrol together, they encounter something that I still can’t shake. Eugene, infected but still lucid, begs Joel to let him see his wife one last time before the virus takes hold. He knows what’s coming. He accepts death. He just wants a moment of love before the end. Joel promises. 

Then he kills him.

Ellie remembers—the same voice that once promised her something else. Something bigger. Joel had lied about the Fireflies. He chose her over the world. And now, she sees the cost of that choice. Trust splinters. Love bends. Everything changes.

If there’s any tougher pill to swallow, it’s the quiet truth that as a parent, you may never feel like you truly did enough. I don’t have children of my own, but through stories like The Last of Us II and conversations with parents I admire, I’ve begun to understand the weight of that role.

Joel is a character shaped by trauma, love, and impossible choices. Whether you believe he was right to save Ellie at the cost of humanity, or whether you see it as a selfish act masked as love, there’s no denying the complexity of his choices. There’s a cruel edge to him—something hardened by years of survival. But there’s also something deeply human.

At the start of the episode, a flashback shows us where some of Joel’s pain began. His father, Javier, admits to hitting Joel's brother, Tommy. Not because it was right—but because it was what he knew. What his father had done to him. Javier tells Joel that all he ever tried to do was just a “little better.” Later, Joel passes those same words onto Ellie. If she ever had children, he says, he hopes she does just a little better than him. And maybe that’s the hope: that each generation breaks the cycle—inch by inch.

I won’t pretend my parents didn’t hurt me. They did. But I have a choice. I can take a stand. I can feel the weight of that pain and decide not to pass it on. Love is complicated—sometimes it wounds more than it heals. But there’s no excuse for repeating the harm. I could let bitterness shape me, let history repeat itself. It’d be easy. Familiar. And in The Last of Us II, we watch Ellie do just that. She becomes a mirror of Joel—chasing vengeance with a fire so fierce it burns through everything in her path. For most of the game, she chooses anger. Hurt. Retribution.But in the end, in a moment of aching clarity, she chooses something else. She chooses peace. She chooses to stop. That’s what change looks like. That’s the future I want. Not perfect—but better. Just a little better.

For me, it was Christ. None other. After abandonment, you'd think, well, that's terrible. How does one recover? That's a story for another time...