If “regret” is what you feel when you know you could have done things differently, what do you feel when you know, no matter what you did, it would have all come out exactly the same?
This one’s for you, kid. You fucked with my head and my heart, but I … I let you. So if you’re looking to assign blame, it’s all mine. Let’s call it my expired passport: I can look at the stamps and think, “I was there,” and I can’t return.
There’s other things to be thankful for, gifts you didn’t know you were giving me. I gave them all away, in the end, but tattooed their outlines on the palms of my hands so each time I outstretched one in greeting, in anything, I’d see. I see, and I reach a little further, grasp a little harder, because I can.
I still, and now, forgive us both: myself for walking out, and you for shutting the door.