I stand at the door of the hospice room, the scent of antiseptic and dying flowers assaulting my nose. It's sickening, a fitting backdrop for what's about to happen. My knuckles turn white around the doorknob. She wanted to see me. She wanted to apologize. I take a breath, feeling the burn of anger and old hurt in my chest.

I push the door open.

“Anna,” her voice croaks, weak and thin like a dying whisper. She's a frail shadow of the woman I used to know, her skin pale and stretched over bones.

“Mom,” I reply, and the word tastes bitter on my tongue.

She tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “Thank you for coming.”

I stay by the door, my arms crossed. The room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you shiver. The beeping of the machines is the only sound, an annoying reminder of her fragile state.

“Why did you want to see me?” My voice is flat, devoid of the rage boiling inside me. She doesn’t deserve my anger. Not anymore.

“I wanted to say... I'm sorry, Anna. For everything.” Her eyes are watery, the same eyes that watched me suffer and did nothing.

“Sorry?” I laugh, the sound harsh and broken. “You think _sorry_ is going to fix everything? All the nights I cried myself to sleep? All the times I wished I was dead because of you?”

She flinches, and for a moment, I almost feel guilty. Almost.

“I was sick, Anna. I wasn't myself.”

“That's bullshit, and you know it.” I take a step closer, the floor cold under my feet. “You were cruel. You _enjoyed_ hurting me. Now you're dying, and you want to clear your conscience. But you don't get to.”

Tears spill down her cheeks, but I don't care. I can't care. “I know I hurt you, and I regret it every day. Please, Anna, just let me apologize.”

“No,” I say, my voice trembling with the weight of years of suppressed pain. “An apology isn't enough. It will never be enough.”

She looks at me, truly looks at me, and I see the realization dawn in her eyes. She knows she's lost me. She knows there's no forgiveness here.

“Goodbye, Mom.” I turn and walk out of the room, the door clicking shut behind me.

The hallway is quiet, a stark contrast to the storm inside me. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rage, the sadness, the overwhelming sense of betrayal.

As I leave the hospice, the sun feels too bright, the world too loud. But I realized that some wounds never heal. And some apologies come too late.