THE APOLOGY
Daniel sent a letter. It arrived on a Tuesday, in a cream-colored envelope, his name embossed on the back. I knew what it was before I opened it. "Maya," Julian said, from the kitchen. "You don't have to read it." "I know." I opened it anyway. --- Dear Maya, I'm not going to ask for your forgiveness. I don't deserve it. I'm not going to ask you to remember me kindly. I don't deserve that either. I'm writing because I need to say the things I should have said five years ago. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the contract. I'm sorry for treating you like a transaction. I'm sorry for not answering the phone when your mother died. I'm sorry for forgetting you. I'm sorry for all of it. I've spent the last few weeks trying to understand why I did what I did. The truth is, I don't have a good
- Writer
