I'm Sorry

Journal

She practiced 'I'm sorry' for three weeks before calling her daughter.

It had been two years since the fight. Two years of silence. She wrote the apology twenty times. None of them sounded right.

Her daughter was twenty-four now. The last thing she'd said was, 'You never listen.' Her mother had spent two years proving her right.

On a Tuesday, she drove to the grocery store parking lot, sat in her car, and dialed. Her hands were shaking. It rang once. Twice.

'Hi, Mom,' her daughter said. And her mother forgot every word she'd practiced. So she just said the truth: 'I'm sorry. I miss you.'

There was a long silence. Then her daughter said, 'I miss you too, Mom.' Three weeks of practice. Two words did the job.

They met for coffee the next day. Then dinner. Then Sunday. Two years of silence, ended by one shaky phone call.

She still keeps the notepad. All twenty drafts. On the last page she wrote: 'Just say it. That's enough.'