The Library of Apologies

after thirteen summers, i’m finally old enough to visit the library.

not the kind with books—

here, the shelves are lined with apologies.

binders designated for every person in town.

i’ve dreamt of this day.

i used to imagine shuffling through pages of regret,

reading the most intimate remorse of everyone i’ve ever known;

but the apology i’ve wanted most

is the one i’ve waited my whole life to hear.

before the revolution, remorse was rare.

now, every citizen submits one written apology per year to the Library of Apologies—starting at age thirteen.

today, is my thirteenth birthday.

i squinted my eyes as the sun greeted me at the exit to the foster home.

i waved at neighbors out of obligation and kept walking

the library wasn’t far.

by the time i arrived, the sky was scorching. i stepped inside, grateful for shade, for silence.

a forgettable librarian greeted me with a nod.

i swiped my ID and headed to the first section:

every apology tracked, cataloged, filed by last name;

like family secrets alphabetized.

some shelves were fuller than others.

i scanned the pristine binders

between uncle mike and my late grandmother

sat the one i’d been waiting for since i first learned to read:

my mother’s binder.

i sat at a long mahogany table

its surface smooth and cold beneath my palms,

i took a breath before opening it.

the first entry was from before i was born

an apology to my biological father for hiding her pregnancy from him.

i flipped ahead, skimming, searching for my name.

she had written to everyone: coworkers, her brother, her college roommate, her parents, her friends.

apologies, one after another,

like rain filling a cracked bucket

i began to feel sorry for her.

so much regret, so many wounds

carried like boulders on her conscience.

her high school counselor,

her cousin,

the baby she miscarried;

apologies after apologies.

and then—

the pages stopped.

she had left nothing the year she ran away.

the year i was sent to foster care.

the year i begged her not to leave.

i desperately flipped back through the binder.

more apologies: to her boss, the taxi driver, the barista, a stranger in traffic.

a man named “james,” i’d never even heard of.

a pit formed in my stomach.

my face burned red anguish and fury.

the last apology

the last entry she wrote:

“i’m sorry i never became who i wanted to be”

the only entry that felt genuine.

i closed the binder and returned it to the shelf.

then i picked up a pen and a blank sheet from the writing station.

a supercut of memories flashed behind my eyes.

every slap,

slammed door,

every time she looked right through me

i wanted to be angry.

i wanted to tear her binder apart,

watch the pages scatter like ashes.

instead, i wrote:

“i’m sorry i wasn’t good enough

i’m sorry i wasted my life waiting for you to see me”

the words felt fake, heavy, yet hollow.

insincere.

the librarian’s watchful eye gave me courage.

i kept writing.

“actually, i’m not sorry

and i’m not sorry for not being sorry.

i hate you, mom”

the tears came sharp and hot, but tasted like freedom.

i smiled.

i folded the paper, slipped it into my pocket.

on my way out, i told the librarian i’d be back tomorrow. a lie.

she said nothing, just nodded again.

nothing had changed at all.

as i passed rows of binders,

i thought of all those hollow regrets.

shelved and forgotten.

mine won’t sit here.

mine will live where they belong: inside of me.

and in the hearts of anyone i’ve ever hurt.

if i ever write them down,

it’ll be because i’ve lost my voice.

i pushed open the glass doors,

the air crisp,

the sun illuminated everything in sight

like it had been waiting for me.