A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I know.”
“You called me selfish for surviving what you did.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I know.”
I wiped my face quickly.
A hospital hallway was a terrible place to come undone.
Then my mother said the words I had stopped hoping for.
“I am sorry.”
Not “I’m sorry, but.”
Not “I’m sorry you felt.”
Not “I’m sorry circumstances.”
Just sorry.
Plain.
Late.
Imperfect.
Necessary.
I looked at her.
“I don’t know what to do with that yet,” I said.
She nodded.
“That’s fair.”
Fair.
Another word my mother rarely used when it did not benefit her.
A nurse came in then to check her blood pressure, and I stepped out into the hall.
My instructor followed.
She waited until we were near the supply closet.
Then she said, “You handled that with more grace than many people twice your age.”
