10 Minutes

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry it took your death for me to realize I was wrong.

I should have defied all the stories I was fed.

I should have come to see you.

Now that I know who she really is, I begin to doubt everything she told me.

She said you did things to your son—things I, as a daughter, could never overlook.

But now, I’m left with nothing but questions.

What if she lied?

What if she was wrong?

What if you apologized, and I never gave you the chance?

Now, he holds him close—the only one among us who saw past it all.

And I? I should have come.

I should have listened.

I should have been there.

I’m sorry that all our memories couldn’t even add up to a year—

Maybe not even six months.

I’m sorry I never gave you the benefit of the doubt.

I’m sorry I never heard your side.

I’m sorry I judged you based on the words of others.

I hope you didn’t hate me.

I hope you knew—I never once hated you.

I never once feared you.

I wish I had ten minutes.

Just ten minutes.

To say all of this.

To say I’m sorry.

To say I love you.

To say I was wrong.

I wish I could turn back time—

To when I was still a child, sitting by your legs,

Listening to your stories of the bull rhino,

The one that challenged every beast until the dust rose.

To when I still relished your kale stew.

But I can’t turn back time.

And I can’t bring myself to blame anyone else.

Because in the end, I was the one who walked away.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m so, so sorry.