“Did you seriously expect to just say sorry, and that would change what happened?”
Naomi blinks, and I see it land. Right there, in her expression. The first sharp cut of realization.
“Of course not,” she whispers, “but don’t you understand I was scared? And I wasn’t myself after the break-in. I regretted it right after, I swear—”
“Understanding and justification are two very different things, Naomi.”
Naomi stares at me, and for the first time, I see the fight drain out of her. She doesn’t speak again.
People blur together understanding and justification all the time. As if they’re the same thing. But they’re not.
Not at all.
Understanding someone’s actions is seeing the path they took to arrive at them. Justifying them would mean agreeing that the path was the right one, and those two are very different things. One is an act of perception, the other of permission.
Reasons and righteousness are not the same.
Can fear cancel out the damage? Does the pain they felt matter more than the pain they caused?
I know Naomi was scared. Iknowthat. I understand that. I even believe her when she says she regretted it.
But it doesn’t make it right.
It doesn’t undo the bruise I’m now wearing or the silence I sat in after she walked away. It doesn’t fix the nights I spent convincing myself I deserved it somehow.
Doesn’t fix anything she’s done to me over the years.
And maybe she thinks if she says sorry enough times, I’ll hand her the version of me that still needs her.
But I know I’ll never be able to let go of them. Not completely.
Not Sam.
Not Naomi.
Not even my mother.
No matter what’s happened—no matter how badly they’ve broken me—I still find myself caring. Even when I don’t want to. Even when I tell myself I shouldn’t.
I’ll always be checking in on them. Loving them.
Because no matter how much I try to unlearn it, that part of me still exists. The part that wants to make sure they’re okay. Even if they never once thought to ask the same of me.
I used to think I could keep giving and it would be enough. That if I poured out enough of myself, they’d notice. Stay. Maybe even love me the way I tried to love them.
And for a while, I didn’t even realize it was happening. I just… kept giving. Kept handing over pieces of myself like I hadan endless supply. Time. Favors. Apologies I didn’t owe. Space I didn’t have. Love I wasn’t getting back.
Because if people need me, they won’t leave me. That’s what I thought. That’s what Ibelieved.
But one day, you wake up and realize you’ve built a life around other people’s needs, and no one’s ever asked whatyouneeded. You look around and see a hundred open hands, and not one of them reaching out to hold yours.
Everyone takes.
And you’re just… empty.
I’m tired of it. Tired of being the one who always shows up, even when no one asked me to. Especially when no one would do the same.
I’ll always love them. That won’t change.
