Why I Apologize When I Did Nothing Wrong
I said sorry to a door this morning.
It was a heavy door, and I pushed it too slowly, and it swung back a little. “Sorry,” I said, to a door, in a voice meant for a very important person.
Then I said sorry to a boy who stepped on my foot on the bus. I said sorry to the driver for asking if this was the right stop. I said sorry to the empty seat beside me, because I had put my bag on it, and for one wild second I thought the seat might be offended.
By the time I reached school, I had counted seven. Not one of them had been my fault.
I did not tell anyone about the sorries. But Zoe was waiting at the gate, and she looked at my face, and she said, “How many so far?”
“How many what?”
“Sorries.”
I stared at her. “How did you know?”
“Lina. You said sorry to my umbrella last week.”
· · ·
The sorry check
We sat on the bench by the bike rack. Zoe took a small card from her pocket, the kind you use for flashcards, and she wrote two questions on it in her round handwriting.
Did I hurt someone?
Did I break something?
“That’s it?” I said.
“That’s it. Sorry is a real word for real moments. If you hurt someone, say it. If you broke something, say it, and offer to fix it. But if the answer to both is no, it’s not a sorry moment. It’s just a moment.”
“Then what do I say?”
She thought about it. “If someone waits for you, say thank you for waiting. If you need help, say excuse me. If you bump a door, say nothing. Doors are very forgiving.”
I laughed, and then I almost said sorry for laughing, and Zoe pointed at the card, and I closed my mouth.
I tucked the card inside my phone case, right where my thumb would find it.
The truth is, I had never asked myself where the sorries came from. Zoe asked me that afternoon, gently, between bites of a pear.
“I think,” I said slowly, “I say it before anyone can be upset with me. Like paying a small fee at the door, so I’m allowed in.”
Zoe stopped chewing. “You don’t have to pay to take up space, you know.”
I looked at my sneakers for a long time. It felt like a tiny window opening in a stuffy room.
· · ·
Seven thank-yous
The next day, I tried it. On the bus, a woman needed to squeeze past, and my old sorry rose up in my throat like a hiccup. I swallowed it, and I said, “Go ahead, take your time.” She smiled and said, “Thanks, sweetheart.”
At the bakery counter, the baker was slow with my change, and I said, “Thank you for waiting on me.” He looked pleased, and he gave me the end piece of the cinnamon bread without my asking.
A few times, the answer was yes. Once, I really did forget to return Zoe’s pencil case, and she had needed it. I said, “I’m sorry. I forgot your pencil case, and I should have brought it back,” and I meant every word. It felt different, solid and clean, like a coin that was worth something.
“See?” Zoe said. “Now it means something. You’ve been saving it.”
I still apologize too much sometimes. Last week, I said sorry to a lamppost, and I told Zoe about it on purpose, and we laughed until our stomachs hurt. But more and more, I find that the thing I wanted to say was thank you, or excuse me, or nothing at all.
It turns out that I am allowed to take up a little space. I do not have to pay at the door.
With love,
Lina
