When the Apology Never Comes

If you’re still carrying it, and they’re dead—
I get it.

The apology never came.
The acknowledgment never arrived.
The reckoning never happened.
And now it never will.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

There’s a particular kind of grief that comes with not being able to confront the person who hurt you. Not because they won’t listen. Not because they’re sorry-but-not-really.
But because they’re gone.

They don’t get to grow.
They don’t get to explain.
They don’t get to make it right.

And you don’t get closure.
Not the kind you wanted, anyway.

So now what?

What do you do with the ache, the rage, the old script that still plays in your head even though the person who wrote it is six feet under?

You could try to let it go.
(But if it were that easy, you would’ve by now.)

You could tell yourself they did the best they could.
(But maybe their best sucked. Maybe they didn’t try at all.)

You could carry it forever.
(But you already know how heavy that gets.)

So maybe, instead, you do the one thing they never did:

You see it.
You name it.
You call it what it was.
And then, one shaky breath at a time, you give it less of you.

Not because they deserve forgiveness.
Not because their death absolved them.
Not because there was even a sliver of hope they’d meet you halfway.

But because you deserve relief.

You’re still among the living.
You’re still showing up.
If for no one else, then for yourself.

Because that’s what life is.

They’re dead.
There’s nothing you can do.

Except stop letting them write your story from the grave.