I wake up the next day, and see Mr. Faraway’s lengthy messages in my inbox, and get mad. I’m sorry, he says, in a dozen different ways.
Go away, I think. You don’t have time for me and I don’t have time for this.
I’m sorry doesn’t mean anything, I tell him. I’m sorry doesn’t do anything to make something right.
I don’t know what to do, he says, and then launches into another lengthy explanation of everything swirling around him.
And that’s the point, I tell him. You’re just too busy.
He goes on and on, but I can’t listen to it, and anyway, I have to take The Child to school.
When I get back, he calls: He’s trying to sort it all out. Please, I am very new to this. Please be patient, I was in high school last time I did this.
I’m tired of waiting for everyone else, I rage. I waited for eight years while everything else came first, and in the end, I got nothing. I know that’s my issue, I tell him, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.
No, he says, it’s not just your issue, it’s our issue.
I listen, silently, for him to say something that will help.
I will figure this out, he says.
That evening, he calls me again: I thought about it today, and I think you need to hear this: You were right, and I am very sorry.
A few days later, he asks if I am free – on a Monday evening.
Yes, I can make it. Do you have a meeting in town?
No, he says. I moved a few things around so that I could come to see you.
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