There’s a museum in my mind of all the sorries left behind. No plaques, no guide, no thoughtful tour— just echoes of a slammed-shut door.
From parents, partners, friends who knew exactly what their silence drew. They walked away, no backward glance, left me to salvage circumstance.
I used to wait for them to come, with humbled eyes and softer tongue. Now I give myself what they refused to offer in that day.
For closure isn’t theirs to grant, nor healing bound to their recant. I’ll never hear some sorries said— I’ll place my own crown on my head.
Leave a Reply