"Forgive without waiting for apologies"

Her tea always tasted too sweet and she kept the curtains drawn even on bright days, and I spent nights cataloging the ways she hurt me. Caregiving meant pills and appointments and learning to lift her with knees that ached. I kept waiting for an apology that never formed between her mumbling sentences.

The day I stopped expecting that apology I felt a lightness like a window opening. I started calling less like an interrogation and more like company, bringing soup that steamed on the table and small jokes that made her laugh. Forgiveness did not erase the past. It shifted where I put my energy so I could be present without the ledger of grievances.

I forgave my mother the year I stopped waiting for her to apologize.