You’ll reach a point where you cannot blame your mistakes on your parents’. In the early years of your second decade, you’d determined they were the reason you wore a hero’s mask over your villain face and fought for both sides. A double life, your father called it. When you were alone you spat at his hypocrisy. Oh how we see it burn hard in others and not in ourselves, though the sin is omnipresent. Those holding their breath for an apology stand with faces blue and skin cold.

When time teaches you to lower the mirror of self indulgence and pity and you are ready to apologize, you won’t want to say you’re sorry. You have abused words most all your life. You have hired them as gunmen and conmen and built weapons with them and furnished wooden horses with your tongue, felling victims to save yourself from any semblance of pain. Or just because you could. On the day your ego is leveled and your nerves thaw to begin to understand what empathy means, not as per Miriam Webster but as defined by your raw and unfiltered and long-ignored emotions, you will want to embody those apologies so badly and swiftly you fear those you wronged might perish before you can find a way to show them how awful you were toward them.

Prepare your lower lip for your pressing teeth, for there will be many who present in their reaction the bitter irony of too little too late.

Others will reveal to you what you have suppressed so long you had convinced yourself it never resided within you in the first place— forgiveness. Forgiveness is what you will find from the ones whose love you still need the most.

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