Holy Shit, I Remember It. You Don't.

I have apologized to my daughter more than once for things I regret from when she was growing up. I remember them.

Sometimes she doesn't.

She has said some version of, "Mom, I really don't remember that."

And for a long time I thought that should make me feel better.

Apparently my brain did not get that memo.

Because I would still want to explain it. I would still want to tell her what I remembered. I would still want her to know that I knew I had handled something badly.

And recently I caught myself wondering something that was considerably less flattering.

What exactly was I hoping she would give me back?

Was I apologizing because I wanted to take responsibility?

Yes.

Was I also hoping she might say:

Mom, it's okay. I don't remember it. It wasn't that bad. I know you loved me. I forgive you.

Maybe. Probably.

Holy shit.

There it is.

I've written before about invisible contracts. The agreements we quietly create in our own heads and then forget nobody else signed.

I did this, therefore you should do that. I explained, therefore you should understand. I showed up, therefore you should appreciate it.

And apparently:

I apologized, therefore you should help me feel better about what I did.

That one gets uncomfortable fast.

Because apologies are supposed to be good. They are supposed to be one of the things we do when we are taking responsibility.

And they are.

But apparently a good thing can still have extra luggage.

I can genuinely be sorry. I can genuinely want to repair something. And I can also really, really want you to tell me I am still okay.

Those things can exist in the same person at the same time.

That does not make the apology fake. It makes the apologizer human.

I heard a commercial today where a guy said he was terrible at apologizing, so a service helped turn his apology into a song for his wife.

And I thought, well shit.

Apparently apologizing is difficult enough that we can now outsource the lyrics.

I actually don't think that is necessarily a bad thing. Some people freeze, get ashamed, get defensive, or simply cannot find the words. If you need a song, a note, a therapist, a friend, or three drafts on your phone to help you finally say, "I screwed up and I'm sorry," use the bridge.

You do not need perfectly pure motives or perfect language before you repair something.

But there is another part.

The person receiving the apology is still a person. They may not give you the ending you pictured.

They may say thank you. They may forgive you. They may still be angry. They may need time. They may not want to talk about it.

And sometimes they may say something even stranger:

I don't remember.

That is where this gets especially interesting to me.

Because how do you repair a shared event when the memory is not actually shared?

I may remember something clearly enough to regret it. The other person may remember it differently. They may remember almost nothing. They may not attach the same importance to it. They may not want to revisit it.

And "I don't remember" does not automatically tell me why. I do not get to decide for them.

I can let "I don't remember" comfort me. I just can't turn it into proof that nothing happened.

It also means they may not be able to give me the exact response I imagined. They cannot necessarily say, "Yes, I remember exactly how much that hurt and I forgive you," if there is no matching memory sitting on their side.

That does not make my apology unnecessary. It changes what I can reasonably expect it to produce.

And then I saw the part that really stopped me.

My mother and I have our own history.

There are things I remember that hurt. Things I have wanted acknowledged. Things I have wished she could see from my side.

Memory is complicated there now for reasons that are much bigger than one conversation.

And suddenly I realized I have stood in both chairs.

I have been the daughter thinking:

I remember this. I want you to understand what it was like for me.

And I have been the mother thinking:

I remember this. I want you to understand how sorry I am.

Those are not morally identical positions. The person who was hurt is not carrying the same responsibility as the person apologizing for causing hurt.

I don't want to flatten that.

But standing in both chairs taught me something.

Sometimes one person is carrying a memory with enormous emotional weight while the other person is simply not holding the same event in the same way.

And wanting them to hold it with us does not make them able to.

That is painful from either chair.

It also made me look differently at repeated apologies.

Sometimes another apology is needed. Maybe I understood more. Maybe the other person asked another question. Maybe there is more repair to do.

But sometimes I wonder if the first apology was for them and the fourth one is for me.

Because I am still waiting for the sentence that makes my guilt settle down.

At some point the job may stop being:

Say sorry again.

And become:

Listen. Change something. Let the other person have their response. Carry your own regret without handing it back to them to soothe.

That last one is hard.

Because guilt is uncomfortable.

Of course I want relief. Of course I want forgiveness. Of course I want the relationship to be okay.

There is grace in admitting that.

I do not need to pretend I am some spiritually evolved apology machine who wants absolutely nothing in return.

I am a person. I want things.

The practice is noticing when a hope quietly becomes a requirement.

I can take responsibility without demanding that you relieve me of responsibility. I can regret what I did without deciding it permanently defines who I am.

And you can receive my apology without becoming responsible for making me feel better about giving it.

Maybe that is enough.

Maybe before I apologize, or before I apologize again, I can ask myself one question:

If I knew I would receive no reassurance, no shared memory, no forgiveness, and no relief from you, would I still want to say I'm sorry?

If the answer is yes, then I probably know what part is mine.