SORRY

 ‘You should apologise.’ I wasn’t looking at him as I said this. I couldn’t because I was staring at a small imperfection in the polished timber floor. It had my full attention, right up to when he spoke, which he took his own good time to do.

  ‘Storm in a teacup,’ he volunteers. I raise my eyes and take in a slow, calculated breath. I will not cower, I will not back down.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t you understand me? Let me rephrase it for you.’ I say.

  ‘No need, I get it, I should apologise.’ He mumbles. I exhale, count to five and take in another breath. He is getting impatient, starting to get up from the table. 

  ‘Sorry for my poor choice of words’, I say, ‘you will apologise, not should.’ Which way will his nuanced half smile go now? 

  ‘Come on,’ he laughs, ‘either of us would brush it off and move on.’

  ‘Not me’.

  ‘Really? I’m not sure that I’ve done something that anyone else wouldn’t have. I still don’t get all the fuss, it wouldn’t upset me.’

  ‘Are you done with the excuses now? Can we move on?’

  ‘I’m listening,’ he replies, still smiling.

  ‘Did you intend to cause hurt, or is the hurt you caused accidental?’ I watch him push back in his chair and tilt it backwards, almost to the point of tipping over. With him in this precarious position I deliver more bad news.

  ‘ Either way you own it. Again, did you mean to?’ I am not letting him off the hook. He leans in again, putting his hands back onto the table.

  ‘Well, I am sorry that they took it that way.’ He emphasises the sorry, spitting it out, looking away when he says it.

  ‘Wrong.’ I say. He gets up from the table and stands over me.

  ‘What more do you want from me?’ He says, careful to control the volume of his voice.

  ‘Tell me what you did,’ I reply, staring at his chair, willing him to sit back down. He walks to the door, his hand on the doorknob, he hesitates.

  ‘You know what I did,’ he mutters.

  ‘Yep, but do you? Try harder, understand what you did or be honest and admit that you don’t care. No apology works if you haven’t got this bit straight’.  

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he bites, hands going up in a show of defeat. ‘Let’s move on. Give me some words.’   

  ‘I’m not giving you any words.’ I counter.

  ‘For heaven’s sake! Let’s go with “I’m sorry if I offended you” or “I’m sorry that you feel that way”. Either of those seem pretty standard, sincere I mean.’ He picks up his notebook and writes. I watch, curious to see how far he gets. Not far.

  ‘Well, what comes after that?’ He demands.

  ‘ Yep, there you have it,’ I sigh. ‘It’s difficult to find the next words when you get the start wrong?’ I move in closer, ready to impart some more magic. ‘Try this, “I did this … and it caused that. I’m sorry”. If you don’t care, say so. There are times where I’ve done things and I was sorry—there are times where I’ve done things and I wasn’t. Own it either way, do not try to do both.’ I have his full attention now.

  ‘Are you telling me not to apologise?’

  ‘No.’ I say, my voice calm. ‘If you are sorry, think of what you will do to fix the situation or prevent it from happening again. That’s the secret. Start from an honest desire to say sorry, or not, and the rest will flow. Let’s give it another try.’

  He gestures to me to leave him alone so I get up to make us both a drink. I get to the door, turn back towards him and wait for him to look at me. Now I drop my last gem.

  ‘Remember that forgiveness isn’t part of the deal. You’re owed nothing and no one even has to hear you. They don’t have to forgive you. They don’t even have to like you.’ I open the door, and head for the kitchen. I don’t need to look back, I know I’ve left him with his mouth open.

  Some years later, many years later, a document is delivered to my door. The courier vehicle has government plates. Not the usual thing that happens to me these days, not since I retired. The temptation to not take ownership of this intruder is strong, but the courier is most insistent and instructs me that she will return early tomorrow to collect my edits. The envelope has come from the office of the Prime Minister so there is nothing for it but to accept the document, my curiosity in full charge now.

  With a strong cup of tea sitting on the small table beside me, and settled in my perfectly worn armchair, I open the package. It is a draft speech and attached to the front page is a handwritten note. The note is short, to the point, and pleads for my critical eye. I recognise the signature, it has not changed that much.

  The speech reads well, the wordsmithing is exceptional, but does it do what it needs to? Does it say what he wants it to? Is it clear that he wants to say this? Is it clear that forgiveness is not expected? This is what he wants from me.

  Some hours later I am done. My tea is cold, my heart is warm - that is my reply to him the next day. 

  He makes his speech at the next sitting of Parliament. His ‘sorry’ speech, on behalf of his government and all of our governments that have gone before. 

  And it helps.

  And me? I am proud that my once unrepentant son remembers the lessons he learnt around my table. Still, I do not forgive and none of us forget, but we can move on now because a proper sorry always helps.

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