I have lived a long life, seen many things, and done many things. Most of them I am proud of. I have worked hard my whole life, raised six children, kept a good home, been a loyal wife, a kind neighbor, and a member of the church for sixty years.
I have done my duty, always done my duty. I used to think I was not the sort of person to make mistakes. At least, that is what I told myself for many years.
But there is one thing, one thing that haunts me. One thing I cannot fix now, no matter how much I wish I could. And it is entirely my fault, nobody else’s.
Mine alone. I think about it every day. I have for thirty years.
Thirty long years wishing I could turn back time, change what I did, change what I failed to do. But you cannot go back. That is something no one tells you when you are young.
You cannot go back and undo your mistakes. You have to live with them. I was born in November 1843, a cold month.
My mother said it snowed the day I was born. I was the first child, the oldest. Then came my sister Margaret, two years younger than me.
After Margaret came three brothers, William, Henry, and John—five of us in total. But Margaret and I, we were close when we were small. We shared a room, shared clothes, shared secrets.
You know how sisters are. Or perhaps you do not. Perhaps you were an only child.
But Margaret and I, we were everything to each other. We grew up in Pennsylvania. My father ran a mill, a grist mill down by the creek.
People would bring their grain to be ground: wheat, corn, barley, whatever they had. Father charged by the bushel—five cents for wheat, three cents for corn. The mill worked from sunrise to sunset.
The sound of it, that constant grinding, was always present. You could hear it all through the house. Sometimes I still hear it in my dreams.
That steady grinding, wheat into flour, corn into meal. Father worked hard, and we did well. We were not rich, but comfortable.
Certainly better than most families around us. We had a good home, two stories, four bedrooms, a proper parlor, and good food on the table every day. We had meat twice a week, and clothes that were well-made, not patched hand-me-downs.
I never wanted for anything growing up. None of us did. Father made sure of that.
He was proud of what he had built, proud that he could provide for us. And he made sure we knew it. He made sure we knew how fortunate we were, how hard he had worked so we could have these things.
We were expected to be grateful, to show it by being good children, by obeying, by doing our duty without complaint. Father was strict, very strict. He believed in discipline.
He believed children should know their place, should be seen and not heard, should follow orders without question or argument. There were rules for everything. When to wake, when to eat, how to sit at the table, how to speak, what we could say, and what we could not.
There was no running in the house, no loud voices, no playing on Sundays. Everything had its order. Everything had a place.
We learned to obey quickly. Father’s hand was heavy when rules were broken. Mother never interfered, never said, “Go easy on them,” or, “They are just children.”
She always stood behind his decisions. That was how things were done. The father was head of the household.
His word was law. Everyone else followed. That was proper.
That was right. That was how it should be. Margaret and I were different from the beginning.
We were different in ways that became more obvious as we grew. I was serious even as a child—thoughtful, careful, responsible beyond my years. I did what I was supposed to do without being told.
I kept my room tidy and made my bed every morning, corners perfectly folded. I did my chores without complaint and practiced my letters until they were flawless. I never gave Father a reason to be disappointed.
I never gave Mother cause to scold. I took pride in this. I took deep pride in being the good daughter, the reliable one, the one Father could point to and say, “See, that is how children should be.”
I wanted his approval. I needed it, and I worked for it every single day. Margaret was different.
She was lighter somehow, as if the rules did not weigh on her the way they weighed on me. She laughed more, sang while she worked, and spoke when she should have been silent. Sometimes she forgot to make her bed, left her things scattered, and daydreamed when she should have focused on lessons.
Father would scold her. She would apologize.
“Yes, Father. I am sorry, Father. I will do better.”
And she meant it. Truly, she did. But a week later, she would forget again.
She would leave her chores half done, or get distracted by birds outside the window. It was not deliberate. She was not trying to be difficult.
That was simply Margaret, always somewhere else in her thoughts. She was always noticing something beautiful or interesting that the rest of us missed. It irritated me.
Her carelessness, her inability to simply do what was expected, seemed so easy to avoid. Get up, do your chores, follow the rules, complete what is required. Simple.
But for Margaret, it was never simple. And that irritated me more than anything. I could not understand it.
Why could she not be more like me? Why could she not be more responsible, more serious, more concerned with doing things properly? Why did I have to cover for her mistakes?
Why did I have to finish her chores when she forgot? Why did I have to explain for her when Father asked why something was left undone? It seemed deeply unfair.
I was doing everything right, following every rule, meeting every expectation. She was getting by doing half—less than half sometimes—and nobody seemed to notice, nobody seemed to care. Father would scold her when he caught her, but it never changed anything.
She would apologize, promise, and then do it all over again. And somehow she got away with it. Somehow she remained Father’s sweet Margaret, even when she failed to do her duty.
That made me angry, made me resentful. It made me work even harder to be perfect, to be above reproach, to be the daughter who never failed, never disappointed, never needed covering for or making excuses. As we grew older, the differences became more obvious, more frustrating.
I became more rigid, more proper, more concerned with doing things the correct way, the proper way, the way Mother and Father expected. I internalized all their rules, made them my own, and became stricter with myself than they were. I measured everything I did against what was proper, what was right, what was appropriate.
And still, I always came up short in my own eyes. I could have done better. I should have been more careful.
I should have thought ahead more. This constant self-judgment became who I was. Margaret became freer.
That is the only word I can find: free. As she grew into a young woman, she seemed to shed the weight that pressed down on the rest of us. She laughed at things that were not funny—laughed for no reason at all, just because she felt like laughing.
She said things that were improper—observations, too-honest comments that made others uneasy. She questioned Father’s rules, not openly, not in a way that would bring serious trouble, but in small ways, little acts of rebellion. When Father said girls should ride a horse only side-saddle, Margaret argued it was impractical.
When Mother insisted on a certain hairstyle, Margaret would wear it differently the next day. It was nothing major, nothing that caused conflict, just small declarations that she was her own person. Somehow she got away with it.
Somehow Father would shake his head and say, “That is Margaret,” and let it pass. If I had done these things, he would have been furious, lecturing me about obedience and propriety. But with Margaret, he was indulgent.
That made me angry. It made me feel all my effort to be perfect was pointless. It felt as though being responsible and proper was less valued than being charming and free.
When I was twenty, I married George Bennett. He owned land near Father’s mill. Good land.
He was steady, reliable, responsible—just like me. Father approved. He said George would provide well, and that I would have a good life.
He was right. George did provide well. We had a good home and six children over the years.
I kept the house clean, cooked good meals, raised the children properly, and did everything a wife should do. I was proud of my life, proud of my house, proud of my children. Everything was in its place, everything done right.
Margaret married two years after me, a man named Daniel Foster. He was different from George. He was not steady, not reliable.
He was charming, handsome, and smooth-talking, but he had little to his name. He owned no land and worked odd jobs, sometimes at Father’s mill, sometimes for others. He never held one job long and never saved much.
Margaret did not care. She loved him. You could see it in her face when she looked at him.
The way her whole face lit up, the way she laughed at his jokes, the way she touched his arm when they spoke. I did not approve. I thought she should choose better.
I thought she needed someone like George, someone steady, someone who could provide properly. I told her before the wedding, told her she would regret marrying someone like Daniel, someone unstable. She smiled that infuriating smile.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I would rather be happy with Daniel than comfortable with someone I do not love.”
That made me angry. It made me feel as if she were saying I did not love George, that I chose comfort over love. That was not true.
I loved George in a different way, a sensible, grown-up way. After Margaret married, we saw less of each other. She lived in town.
I lived on George’s farm, three miles apart. It was not far, but far enough that we didn’t see each other every day like we once did. We would meet at church on Sundays or at family gatherings, but it never felt the same.
We were both busy with our own lives, our own homes, our own husbands, our own children. Margaret had three boys, all energetic, loud, and always getting dirty. My children were more disciplined, quieter, better behaved.
I took care to make sure they were. The trouble began in small ways, so subtle at first that I barely noticed it. Tiny things built up over the years, like dust accumulating in corners.
Margaret would arrive late to family dinners—not terribly late, just fifteen or twenty minutes, but late nonetheless. She would appear flustered, apologizing, trying to laugh it off. She’d say Daniel had lost track of time fixing something, or one of the boys needed help, or they couldn’t find someone’s shoe.
There was always some excuse, some reason why she couldn’t be on time like everyone else. I, on the other hand, was always punctual, exactly on time. George and I and our children, we would arrive when Mother said, not a minute late.
It irritated me that Margaret didn’t do the same. It felt like a lack of respect, a lack of consideration, a lack of basic courtesy. When Mother said dinner at five o’clock, you arrived at five, not five-fifteen, not five-twenty.
You arrived at five exactly. It wasn’t hard; it just required planning, attention, and discipline—things Margaret didn’t seem to have. Then there was her home.
I visited once when the children were small. Margaret had invited me for tea, saying she wanted to show me the house. It was small, much smaller than mine.
There were two rooms downstairs, two upstairs. It was nothing luxurious, but it could have been warm, cozy, welcoming. Instead, it was chaos.
Toys were everywhere—on the floor, on furniture, under tables. Wooden blocks, tin soldiers, and rag dolls were scattered across every room. Dishes from breakfast, or perhaps the night before, were stacked in the sink, waiting to be washed.
Laundry was piled on a chair by the fire, probably clean but not folded, just left there. The floor needed sweeping, with crumbs under the table and mud tracked in from outside. The house felt unmanaged, cluttered, messy, like no one was really in charge.
Margaret didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t apologize for the disorder. She poured tea as though nothing were wrong, as if the chaos was invisible.
Or maybe she saw it and simply didn’t care. That might have been worse. I could not hide my disapproval.
My face betrayed me as I looked around at the mess. How can you live like this? How can you let it get this bad? No pride, no standards.
Margaret noticed. Something shifted in her expression. It was a closing off, like a door shutting.
Her smile became fixed and polite, but no longer warm. She said nothing, didn’t defend herself or her house. She just poured the tea with hands that trembled slightly and changed the subject to the weather.
We drank in awkward silence. I left early, saying I had other things to do. She didn’t try to stop me, only walked me to the door and said goodbye quietly.
I walked home fuming, angry at the state of her house, angry that she didn’t seem to care, angry that she had wasted the visit by not making it presentable. It never occurred to me then that perhaps she had tried. Perhaps with three small boys and a husband who worked long hours, keeping the house perfect was impossible.
Perhaps she was doing the best she could. I didn’t think of that. I only saw what I saw: the mess, the disorder, the failure to maintain proper standards.
I began to make small comments, gentle observations—not mean, but critical—about how she should keep her house cleaner, how her children needed more discipline, how Daniel should pursue better work, how they should save money instead of spending it on trivial things. Margaret would nod.
“You’re probably right, Harriet.”
But she didn’t change. She didn’t act differently. That frustrated me.
If she knew I was right, why didn’t she do things the proper way? Why wasn’t she more like me? The breaking point came in 1876.
I was thirty-three; Margaret was thirty-one. It was at Mother’s birthday dinner. The entire family was present: Father and Mother, my brothers and their families, George and I with our children, and Margaret and Daniel with their boys.
The dining room was crowded, almost too many people, but we managed. During the meal, Margaret mentioned that Daniel had been offered a job, a real opportunity managing a store in Ohio—good pay, steady work. They would have to move, leave Pennsylvania, leave the family.
Margaret seemed excited, anxious yet eager. She glanced around as if waiting for someone to react. I spoke first.
I shouldn’t have, but I said, “That’s a terrible idea. Daniel will ruin it like he ruins everything else. You’ll be stuck with no family, no support, no money when it collapses.”
My words sounded harsher than I intended. But I believed I was helping, being honest, protecting her from a mistake. The table fell silent.
Everyone stopped eating, staring. Margaret went pale, then red, tears filling her eyes. Daniel reached to touch her arm, to say something, but Margaret stood suddenly, shoving her chair back, nearly tipping it.
“We’re leaving,” she said, her voice shaking. “Boys, get your coats.”
Daniel tried to calm her, urged her to sit and finish dinner, but she refused. She grabbed her shawl, gathered the boys, and left without saying goodbye. Daniel followed, apologizing to Mother, apologizing for Margaret.
The door closed behind them. Everyone stared at me. Father, Mother, my brothers, their wives, George.
Even the children paused their play.
“What?” I asked. “Someone needed to tell her the truth. Someone needed to be honest.”
Father cleared his throat and resumed eating. Conversation restarted, awkward and forced, but the dinner was ruined. We left early.
George remained mostly silent on the way home, driving the wagon slowly. At last, he spoke.
“You were too harsh, Harriet. She’s your sister. You should have been kinder.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t admit he might be right. Margaret and Daniel moved to Ohio three weeks later.
They didn’t inform me. They didn’t say goodbye. I heard from Mother, who said Margaret had been hurt, had cried when telling her what I’d said.
She said that Margaret didn’t want to see me, didn’t want to speak, and needed time. I was angry, wounded. I’d been honest, trying to help, and this was her way of thanking me—by cutting me out.
Fine. I had my own life, my family. I was the older sister, the responsible one.
If she chose mistakes, that was her choice. I had done my duty. Years passed.
Mother sent updates. Margaret and Daniel were thriving in Ohio. The store was a success, and Daniel managed it well.
The boys were growing, and the house was theirs. Everything Margaret wanted was happening. I told myself I was happy for her.
But deep down there was bitterness, a sting of resentment. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps she had made the right decision and I had been unnecessarily cruel.
I thought about writing letters of apology, starting them multiple times. Dear Margaret, I’m sorry for what I said. I was wrong.
But I never finished them, never sent them. Pride held me back. I could not admit I had been wrong.
I could not acknowledge the hurt I caused. I waited for her to make the first move, for forgiveness to come from her, but it never did, and neither did I. Time went on.
Ten years passed, then twenty. Mother died in 1892. Margaret returned for the funeral.
At church, I saw her—older now, gray streaks in her hair, lines around her eyes, but still Margaret, still with the familiar light in her face. Daniel was with her, still charming, still handsome. The boys were grown, one married.
Our eyes met. I thought perhaps this was it. Maybe she would come to me.
Maybe we could speak. Maybe we could reconcile. But she looked away, sitting on the other side with Daniel and the boys.
After the service, she left quickly without attending the gathering, without a word. Father died two years later. Margaret returned again.
We were in the same building, the same room, but we did not speak, did not meet eyes. We acted like strangers, as if we had never been sisters, never shared secrets, never shared a home. My brothers noticed.
Henry asked why we were not speaking. I told him it was complicated. Old matters better left alone.
He accepted it. Everyone did. No one wanted to force a reconciliation.
The silence continued. In 1900, my brother William wrote to tell me Margaret was ill. Something was wrong with her lungs—perhaps pneumonia, perhaps consumption.
She had asked him to visit, saying she wanted to see family, wanted to return to Pennsylvania. William was planning a trip to Ohio. He asked me if I wanted to come with him.
“No,” I said. “I’m too busy. I have my own family to take care of. I can’t just drop everything and go to Ohio.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
“She’s your sister, Harriet,” he said. “She might be dying.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I told him. “Margaret was always dramatic. She will be fine.”
He left without me. A month later, William came back. He came to my house on a Tuesday morning.
George answered the door and let him in. He called for me. I was in the kitchen kneading bread, my hands covered in flour.
I wiped them on my apron and walked into the parlor. William was standing by the window—not sitting, just standing, staring out. His face looked drawn, tired, like he hadn’t slept in days.
I could tell from his expression that something terrible had happened.
“She’s gone,” he said.
He didn’t turn to look at me, just stared out the window, saying it flatly.
“She’s gone. Margaret had died two days before I arrived.”
Just two days. If he had left a day earlier, if the train had been faster, if anything had been different, he might have made it. He might have seen her, held her hand, told her she was loved.
But he didn’t. He arrived too late. The funeral had already taken place the day before.
Daniel and the boys had buried her in the town cemetery. It had been a small funeral—only them, a few neighbors, some church friends. Nobody from Pennsylvania, nobody from her family.
There was just the grave, the flowers, and the memories. William had gone to the grave and left white roses, Margaret’s favorite. But that was all he could do.
That was all any of us could do now. She was in the ground. She was gone.
I would never see her again, never hear her voice, never get the chance to tell her I was sorry. I don’t remember much else about that day. The details are blurry, scattered.
I remember William stayed for a few hours. He told me about the grave, about how Daniel looked.
“Broken,” he said. “Absolutely broken. The boys, too. All of them crushed.”
Margaret had been the light in their home, the warmth and laughter. And now she was gone, and they didn’t know how to live without her. William said Daniel had asked about me, asking if I might come for a visit.
William had to tell him probably not. He had to explain, without explaining, that Margaret and I hadn’t spoken in years, that we had drifted apart. Daniel nodded as if he already knew, as if Margaret had carried that hurt silently for all those years.
William asked me what happened between us, why we stopped speaking. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t find the words.
I just shook my head and started crying. He didn’t push, just stayed with me for a while. Then he left, saying he had to return to his own family.
He said he was sorry.
“Sorry for your loss,” he murmured.
It was spoken as if Margaret had been mine to lose. But she hadn’t been mine in twenty-four years. I had given up that right, given up my sister, given up any claim to grief.
But I grieved anyway. I grieved like I had never grieved for anyone, not even for our parents. I remember George tried to comfort me.
He put his arm around me. I pushed him away. I didn’t want comfort.
I didn’t deserve it. This was my fault, my doing. I had destroyed my relationship with my sister.
I had let pride and stubbornness keep me from fixing things. And now she was dead, gone. And I could never repair it, never take back the words I said, never apologize, never tell her I loved her, never admit she had been right about Daniel, right about Ohio, right about everything.
I had been wrong. Wrong to judge her. Wrong to criticize her.
Wrong to value being right over being kind. I was wrong in every way. And now it was too late.
I went to my room and sat on the bed—the same bed I’d slept in for forty years, George’s and mine—and then the weight of it hit me. It was not just that Margaret was dead, but the full meaning of it. She was gone.
My sister, my only sister, the girl I had shared secrets and rooms with, grown up with, gone. And I had never said I was sorry, never told her I loved her, never repaired what I had broken. Twenty-four years of silence.
Pride and stubbornness had stolen her from me. For twenty-four years, I could have written letters. I could have visited, I could have swallowed my pride.
Twenty-four years of chances were wasted because I thought I was the one who had been wronged. And now she was gone, and there would be no more chances. I cried that night.
I cried like I hadn’t since I was a child. George held me without saying anything. He just held me as I sobbed over and over.
“I should have gone,” I wept. “I should have visited. I should have said, ‘I’m sorry.'”
He held me. What else could he do? Nothing could fix it.
Nothing could bring her back. Nothing could give me those lost years. They were gone.
She was gone. And it was my fault. That was twenty-three years ago.
I am eighty now, eighty years old. And I think about Margaret every day. Every single day, I think about what I said, how I hurt her, how I was too proud to apologize.
How I wasted twenty-four years. How I let my pride cost me my sister. That is my greatest regret.
It is not just that I was mean at that dinner. That was bad, yes. But the worst part, the part I cannot forgive myself for, is that I never said sorry.
I had twenty-four years to write a letter, to visit, to say I was sorry, to tell her I loved her, to fix the damage I had done. And I didn’t. I was too proud, too stubborn, too sure I was right, too unwilling to admit my mistakes.
I told myself, I thought, there would be time. I thought we could fix it eventually. I thought one day I would go see her, or she would visit, and everything would be okay.
I thought there was time, but there is never as much time as you think. Margaret was fifty-seven when she died. Fifty-seven—not old, not young, just gone.
And with her went any chance I had to make things right. People ask me about her sometimes—young people, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. They ask if I had siblings.
“Yes,” I say. “I had a sister, Margaret.”
They ask what she was like.
“She was beautiful,” I tell them. “Funny, kind, loved her family, happy.”
All of it is true. But I do not tell them the rest. I do not tell them how I hurt her, how I was cruel, how I never apologized.
That is mine to carry. It is a stone in my chest, heavy, always there. I have apologized to her in my mind thousands of times—thousands.
I do it while lying in bed, sitting on the porch, or during church on Sundays. I close my eyes and imagine her next to me. I imagine saying, Margaret, I am sorry. I was wrong. I was cruel. I should have been kinder. I should have supported you. I should have been a better sister.
I imagine her smiling, saying, It’s all right, Harriet. I forgive you.
I imagine hugging her, being sisters again. But it is only imagination, only wishful thinking. She is not here to forgive me.
She never will be. My chance is gone. If I could go back, I would change everything.
I would bite my tongue at that dinner. I would let her tell her news and be happy for her. I would say Ohio sounded like a wonderful chance.
I would tell her I was proud of her, proud of Daniel. I would hug her, wish her well, and ask her to write. And when she left for Ohio, I would write every week, every month.
I would visit, I would see her house, meet her friends, see her happy. I would tell her I was sorry for ever doubting her, for ever thinking my way was the only right way. But I cannot go back, cannot change it, cannot fix it.
You cannot undo the past, cannot unsay words, cannot undo hurt. You have to live with your mistakes, with your regrets, with the knowledge that you failed someone you loved. That is the punishment.
It is not guilt from others. It is not family anger. It is only knowing what you did, what you did not do, what you destroyed through pride, stubbornness, and a foolish certainty that you were right.
I have tried to be different with my children, my grandchildren. I have tried to be kinder, more flexible, less certain that my way is the only way. When my daughter Anna wanted to marry a man I did not approve of, I stayed silent, smiled, and welcomed him.
They have been married twenty years now. They are happy. He has been a good husband, a good father.
I was wrong about him, like I was wrong about Daniel. But this time, pride did not ruin a relationship. This time I learned—too late for Margaret, but not for Anna.
When my son Robert said he was moving to California, I did not argue. I did not say it was a mistake. I hugged him, told him I would miss him, told him to write, and told him I loved him.
And he did, every month. He has been there fifteen years. He is doing well, has a good job, and a family.
He comes back to visit. We have a good relationship because I did not do to him what I did to Margaret. I learned from my mistake.
It was too late for her, but not too late for him. That is the lesson, I guess. The lesson I learned far too late.
Love matters more than being right. Relationships matter more than pride. Family matters more than your ego.
You can be right about everything and still lose everything that truly matters. You can be proper and careful and do everything the right way, and still hurt the people you love the most. Being right means nothing if it costs you the people who matter most in your life.
I wish I had learned that lesson sooner. I wish I had learned it before it cost me my sister, but I did not. And now I have to live with that.
I have to carry this regret for however long I have left. It could be a year, it could be five years, it could be tomorrow. It does not matter.
No matter how long I live, I will carry this with me. The knowledge that I had a sister who loved me, and whom I loved too. And I threw that away because I was too proud to say I was sorry, too stubborn to admit I was wrong, too blind to see that time always runs out.
If you have someone you need to apologize to, do it now. Do not wait. Do not think you will have more time later.
Do not let pride stop you. Do not let stubbornness keep you silent. Say the words.
Say you are sorry. Say you were wrong. Say you love them.
Say whatever needs to be said. Because one day it will be too late. One day they will be gone, and you will be left like me—with regret, with guilt, with the heavy knowledge that you had a chance and you wasted it.
I see Margaret sometimes in my dreams. She is young again. We are young again.
We are back in the room we shared as children. She is laughing at something. That laugh she had—light and free and full of joy.
I try to tell her I am sorry. I try to tell her I was wrong. But I cannot speak.
The words will not come out. Then I wake up, and she is gone again. And I am old again.
And it is too late again. Always too late. I will die with this regret.
I know it will be the last thing I think about. It won’t be my children, or my grandchildren, or my long marriage to George, or any of the things I did right. I will think about Margaret.
I will think about what I said to her, about what I never said, about all the years we lost, about how I let pride destroy the bond between us. That is what I will take with me when I go. That regret, that knowledge that I failed her, failed myself, failed both of us.
That is the one thing I regret more than anything else: not apologizing to my sister, not fixing things when I still had the chance. I let twenty-four years pass in silence because I was too proud to write a letter, too stubborn to admit I was wrong. That is my greatest failure, my deepest regret, the one thing I would change if I could go back.
But I cannot go back. None of us can. We can only move forward, carrying our regrets, learning from our mistakes, and trying to do better with the time we have left.
I have tried to do better. I have tried to be kinder, less judgmental, more forgiving, but it does not change what happened with Margaret. It does not undo the pain I caused.
It does not give me those lost years back. It is too late for her. But maybe it is not too late for someone reading this.
Maybe someone out there has a sister or a brother or a friend they have been too proud to apologize to. Maybe someone is waiting for the right time, thinking they will fix it someday. Do not wait.
There is no right time. There is only now, before it is too late, before they are gone, before you are left with nothing but regret and the painful knowledge that you had your chance and let it slip away. That is what I would tell my younger self if I could.
That is what I would say to that thirty-three-year-old woman who spoke those cruel words at our mother’s birthday dinner. I would tell her to swallow her pride, to apologize right away, to not let even one day pass without making it right. I would tell her not to waste twenty-four years in stubborn silence, to not lose her sister over something so small and foolish.
But I cannot tell her. She is gone. That version of me is gone.
And Margaret is gone, too. And all I have left is regret—deep, endless, crushing regret. That is the one thing I regret.
