A friend who teaches elementary school has a student who got into trouble for an incident that fit his modus operandi perfectly. When she confronted him, he denied any wrongdoing and was then suspected not only of the deed, but of lying about it. When the story was finally unravelled, it turned out that he was innocent. His teacher felt terrible for having doubly accused him and apologized profusely. He told her that her apology didn’t matter, that he didn’t feel any different or better because she had said she was sorry. She thought about that, and later took him aside to say that she now realized her apology was really for herself, but that her words had made her feel better. With time, she hoped, they would have the same effect on him too.
Well, they won’t, he said.
For a long time now, I have wanted to make an apology . Two, in fact. But hearing this story made me re-examine whether there was any point to saying I was sorry, if the words used to express regret are not well-received. And while it’s generally true that the giver of an apology feels a lessening of their burden, but the relief isn’t always reciprocated. ‘Do you accept my apology? ‘, we might ask, but the response is not always positive. How difficult it is to extend our regret to another, only to see it slip through their hands.
Reconsidered thusly, my apologies may simply become acknowledgements. There will still be a faint hope accompanying them that repair is possible, but an acknowledgement does not carry the same weight of expectation. An apology is a bit like a birthday present, offered without obviously anticipating anything in return. But if, when the giver’s birthday rolls around, nothing comes her way, there’s likely to be some disappointment.
A misunderstanding of the highest order passed between a brother and me some years ago and it remains unresolved, leaving traces still evident despite the erosion of time. On the surface, we appear to have gotten over it, and part of my reluctance to say anything now is a fear of re-opening an old wound. But I can’t bury things like he seems to be able to do, and my old distress, half-conscious though it is, regularly turns over and mutters in a dark corner of my mind. What also stops me from apologizing is that I believe I had valid reason to say to him what I did way back then, although I never dreamt that my words would have such a devastating effect.
And longer ago than that, events that I put in motion changed the course of my former husband’s life to such an extent that he cannot bring himself to speak to me. It is our youngest child’s greatest wish that his siblings, his father and I simply be able to share a meal together once in a while, on the rare occasion that we are all in the same city.
For that to happen, I would need to make an apology – or an acknowledgement – of what my husband suffered when he lost a life he had thought would always be his. For the sake of my son, I think I can do that, but there is something standing in the way. Until I started writing this essay I didn’t understand that it is the very real possibility that my regret will only be met with continued hostility. That it just won’t do.
That’s the crux of it. I’m afraid to say what wants to be said in case nothing comes back. No reciprocal acknowledgement, no acceptance, only silence. Or worse, outright rejection. But as Christmas approaches, I am pulled by a strong urge to make things right, to offer a gift in the true spirit of giving without expectation of something for myself.
Unwrapped, no strings attached and straight from the heart.
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