Chapter 25 - MY LAST APOLOGY
At seventy-two, I developed heart disease.
Emma became my medical contact because I asked.
Laura served as primary decision-maker under clear documents.
Independent financial management covered my estate if I lost capacity.
No one person held everything.
I told Emma:
“I want to apologize again for the punch.”
She groaned.
“Dad.”
“You were four.”
“I know.”
“You watched me rescue you and then hit someone.”
“Yes.”
“I worry that taught you violence follows love.”
Emma leaned back.
“You want the adult answer?”
“Yes.”
“I remember the punch less than you do.”
That surprised me.
“I remember you cutting the chain. I remember your coat. I remember the ambulance lights.”
“You told me I scared you.”
“Because you did.”
“So—”
“So you apologized and changed. Stop making my childhood carry your need to punish yourself.”
Dr. Morris would have loved her.
I laughed.
Then cried.
Emma took my hand.
“You did something wrong after doing something right. That is the story.”
“Simple.”
“No. Specific.”
Specificity had saved us repeatedly.
May you like
I stopped apologizing every year.
One apology can become selfish if the harmed person must keep reassuring you.
