I just want to hear her say, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. Will you please forgive me?”

So I wait for those words – the words, that like an incantation, will make the fury all go away. I let the stillness come over me, holding out my palms, desperate to unclench them. I want open, supple hands that are hands of welcome, refuge, and encouragement. I want my hands to hug and console.

Instead, my fists clench tighter and I dig my fingernails into the flesh. My palms receive my frustration and anger, and bitterness sinks into the grooves my fingernails leave.

But the answer leaves me tight-fisted. The repentance is a shallow, “I’m sorry, but…” with a litany of lists and explanation. I’m hollow and left with a strange feeling of distance. Feeling just a little bit lost, like I can’t find my way home anymore. And I realize, I don’t think I can even imagine what repentance might look like. At least not here, not now.