“I’m sorry that I always screw up, Mom,” he says. “You don’t always screw up.” He nods. “It’s okay. I know I do. I just—” I put my hand up to his lips to stop him from talking. “Please, Reese. Stop.” I fumble with his seat belt, releasing him from its hold. “Just come here.” I pull him against my chest and circle my arms around him. He clings to me and starts crying. The parking brake digs into my ribs, but I ignore it. “I’m the one who is sorry,” I whisper into the top of his head while he cries. “I’m so sorry.”
