I regret that you couldn’t give up your addictions when I was nine, and that we had to be separated. I regret that when I was fifteen, and asked for you to be by my side in the hospital to get the most painful news of my entire life, you again lost your focus and disappeared. I regret that when I see you next weekend, after eight years, I will not be able to call you “Mom.”
Most of all, I regret that I will not bat an eye when you finally see me in the wheelchair I’ve been in and will probably be in for the rest of my life.
I regret it, but I can’t say I’m sorry.