And then—they moved. That was it. No tragedy, no big final hazing. One day she was there, next day she wasn’t. End of story. Now, why do I regret that? Why, forty-two years later, am I still thinking about it? Relative to most of the other kids, I was actually pretty nice to her. . . . But still. It bothers me. So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t quite know what to do with it: what I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.[5]
