She lifted her head just enough to look at me, still on her hands and knees. Tears were cutting tracks through her makeup. Her nose was running. She looked nothing like the composed, controlled woman who had raised me.
She was telling me, with her body, what she couldn't say with her words: I am sorry to the very marrow of my bones. the day my mother made an apology on all fours better
I wish I could tell you that I immediately forgave her. That I pulled her up from the floor and wrapped my arms around her and sobbed that I loved her, that I had always loved her, that everything was suddenly okay. She lifted her head just enough to look