(I went a different route with this one compared to my usual stuff I think, bit more raw, sorry)

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

My stomach twists into knots and in that moment I truly hate her. I want to hit her, to lash out, to leave the room. How ugly of me. It’s just an apology.

But its not. It’s not just, I’m sorry. Not with her. With her, it’s an admittance of defeat. It’s a licking of the boots, it’s the promise that I will give in to her lie, to her version of the story. It is not a mending of fences and hearts, it’s a punishment, a final blow. It is a reminder that she holds the power. She can hurt me, threaten me, insult me, and i will still end up here. With an apology. And maybe its because she is my mother that I feel such guilt for not wanting to say it.

“I’m sorry I was rude,” I say, and I mean ‘I’m sorry I let you see my negative emotions’

“You were tired and had a hard day at work,” I say, and I mean ‘I’m sorry that I failed to accommodate your foul mood.’

“Thank you,” she says, and another piece of me breaks. Because to the eyes of an observer, this is a normal exchange between a mother and child. To the eyes of my father, home from work late, arriving at the tail end of the fight. This is simply an apology. From a stubborn girl to her mother. This is how I will come to think of it. This is how it will always go.

And it won’t be until I am older, that I will understand, she was meant to say it back