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Growing up, I was told that once someone said they were sorry, then all would be forgiven. I was told to utter “I’m sorry” for every inconvenience, for every slip up. I was taught that apologies had the power to right every wrong, no matter how little or severe. I was taught that as long as I say those words, every flaw I committed would be forgiven and all would be fine.
I grew up shrouded with apologies, from the moment of my birth; from the exact second in which I opened my eyes. Cradled in my mother’s embrace, in the scent of my father’s liquor, I heard my dear mother whisper in my ear: “I’m sorry”.
My doe eyed, untainted view could not understand. A “sorry” were for flaws, for the mistakes you wish to hide and never unveil again, so why was my dear mother whispering those two sacred words to me? Why was my mother, my sweet and loving mother, brushing my hair away from my face as she apologized for a mistake that I was not aware she committed.
My dear mother was the one who taught me that saying sorry could fix any broken bones or bleeding wound. She said she was sorry when she placed a bandage under my eye, she kissed me on the cheek and whispered an apology after putting my arm in a splinter. Mother was the one who said that as long as she said sorry, I could not hold anything against her.
And so, I didn’t. Even after every bruised cheek, every bleeding gash on my forehead, no matter how many glass shards I’ve had to pick from my tainted and scarred skin. As long as my mother said sorry, my doe eyed self could only feel nothing but pure adoration for my dear mother.
The number of apologies that slipped from her chapped lips seemed to increase as I grew older, when there was no more extra space at the tip of my shoes, when pants became shorts, and when dolls got thrown into the category of old toys.
I nurse my swelling eye, huddled against my mother’s chest, the scent of my father’s liquor has long since made its home within the fabric of our stitched up and raggedy couch. I feel my mother push her face against my hair and can hear her whisper those two words.
Even in the arms of puberty, I still could not figure out what exactly was she saying sorry for.
Perhaps she was apologizing for the scars that adorn my skin, for the rolls of bandages I’ve had to use every waking moment of my life. Maybe she's apologizing for the glass shards in the soles of my feet, for the beer I slip on every morning. I try not to bite my tongue. Mother always apologized; all should be forgiven.
But even as mother constantly tells me to hold nothing against her; she said sorry after all. I still could not help how my tongue curls to the back of my mouth when she imprints crescent moons into my arm, cannot help how I inch back from her cold embrace, or how every honeyed word from her lips starts to sound like the angry buzzing of bees.
Every cherry flavored apology she feeds me starts to taste more and more rotten each day. Each “sorry” progressively feels more like an animals’ ash shoved inside a bleeding cut. Each wrap of her arms around my body feels like needles poking out from within the confines of my own skin.
It is only when I’m clutching my bleeding eye and listening to my mother muttering a “sorry” under her breath do I realize that her sorry did not give me my eyesight back. Her sorry did not alleviate the pain, it did not slow down the gushing blood, and it certainly did not make her worthy to forgive.
I laid in her arms unmoving that night, the gauze on my eye itching and scratchy, I feel my mother breathing against my cheek and hear her whispering.
“I’m sorry.” I hear her say. But did that make her eligible for forgiveness? I was taught that those two words meant that the one in the wrong was in the clear, that their wrong has been corrected.
I still did not know what she was apologizing for, laying in her arms as I feigned being asleep. She hugged me tighter, pushed her face into my hair deeper and whispered:
“I’m sorry you were ever born.”
In mothers restricting embrace, the scent of my fathers’ liquor in my nose, on an old raggedy couch, I pondered to myself: had my entire existence been a mistake? It must’ve been mother said sorry. Even if mothers’ apologies were often like pulling teeth out with rusted pliers. This time, mother sounded different.
Different in the way her voice cracked, different in how she slowly said every syllable of each word instead of her usual rushed apologies. It’s different in the way her voice is softer and how the roughness of her throat seemed to have dwindled to make way for a new emotion to take its place.
Mother sounded sincere.
Mother was being sincere, so why does forgiveness slip from between my fingers? Why can I no longer find it within my beating heart to tell mother it’s alright?
I don’t want to accept her only sincere “I’m sorry”.
But Mother never taught me how to not accept someone’s apology.