“I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry, you’re sorry. Always sorry. No.” She cut my response off at the knees. “What you are is disappointing. You are so disappointing. You are disappointing.” The last iteration was said not with calcifying anger but an abrupt sadness that underscored the truth of it. In that timbre resonated my every fuckup. Every tantrum I’d pulled, every item I’d stolen, every time she must have cringed at having to introduce me as her daughter.
