I’ve lived a long time, seen a lot of things, done a lot of things. Most of them I’m proud of. I’ve worked hard my whole life. Raised six children, kept a good house, been a faithful wife, a good neighbor, a member of the church for 60 years. I’ve done my duty. Always done my duty.

I’m not the kind of person who makes mistakes. At least that’s what I used to think. That’s what I told myself for years. But there’s one thing, one thing that haunts me. One thing I can’t fix now. No matter how much I wish I could. And it’s my own fault. Nobody else’s. Just mine.

I think about it every day. Have for 30 years. 30 years of wishing I could go back. Change what I did. Change what I didn’t do. But you can’t go back. That’s what they don’t tell you when you’re young. You can’t go back and fix your mistakes. You have to live with them.

I was born in 1843, November. Cold month. My mother said it snowed the day I was born. I was the first child, the oldest. Then came my sister Margaret, two years younger than me. After Margaret came three brothers, William, Henry, and John, five of us total. But Margaret and I, we were close when we were young. Shared a room, shared clothes, shared secrets. You know how sisters are. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you were an only child. But Margaret and I, we were everything to each other.

We grew up in Pennsylvania. My father had a mill, a grist mill down by the creek. People would bring their grain to be ground, wheat, corn, barley, whatever they had. Father charged by the bushel, 5 cents a bushel for wheat, three for corn. The mill ran from dawn to dusk. The sound of it, that grinding sound, it was constant. You could hear it throughout the house. Sometimes I still hear it in my dreams. That steady grinding, wheat becoming flour, corn becoming meal.

Father worked hard. We did well. Not rich, but comfortable. Definitely better than most families in the area. We had a good house. Two stories, four bedrooms, a proper parlor, good food on the table every day, meat twice a week, good clothes that weren’t mended hand-me-downs. I never wanted for anything growing up. None of us did. Father made sure of that. He was proud of what he’d built, proud of being able to provide. And he made sure we knew it. made sure we knew how lucky we were, how hard he worked so we could have these things.

We were expected to be grateful, to show it by being good children, by being obedient, by doing our duty without complaint. Father was strict, very strict. Believed in discipline, believed children should know their place, should be seen and not heard, should do as they’re told without question or argument. We had rules for everything. When to wake up, when to eat, how to sit at the table, how to speak, what we could say and what we couldn’t. No running in the house, no loud voices, no playing on Sundays. Everything was ordered. Everything had its place.

We learned to obey, learned quickly. Father’s hand was heavy when rules were broken. Mother never interfered. Never said, “Go easy on them,” or “They’re just children.” She stood behind father’s decisions always. That was how things were done. The father was head of the household. His word was law. Everyone else obeyed. That was proper. That was right. That was how it should be.

Margaret and I were different from the beginning. Different in ways that became more pronounced as we grew. I was serious even as a child. Thoughtful, careful, responsible beyond my years. Did what I was supposed to do without being told. Kept my room clean. Made my bed every morning with the corners folded just so. Did my chores without complaint. Practiced my letters until they were perfect. Never gave father reason to be disappointed in me. Never gave mother cause to scold. I took pride in that. Deep pride in being the good daughter, the reliable one. the one father could point to and say, “See, that’s how children should be. I wanted his approval. Needed it. Worked for it every single day.”

Margaret was different. She was lighter somehow, as if rules didn’t weigh on her the way they weighed on me. She laughed more, sang while she worked, talked when she should have been quiet, forgot to make her bed some mornings, left her things scattered around our room, daydreamed when she should have been concentrating on her lessons. Father would scold her. She’d apologize, say, “Yes, father. I’m sorry, father. I’ll do better.” And she meant it. She really did. But then a week later, she’d do the same thing again, forget her chores, lose track of time, leave the butter churn half-finished because she got distracted watching birds through the window.

It wasn’t deliberate. She wasn’t trying to be difficult. She just was. That was Margaret. Always somewhere else in her head, always seeing something beautiful or interesting that the rest of us missed. It irritated me. Her carelessness, her inability to simply do what she was supposed to do. It seemed so easy to me. You get up, you do your chores, you follow the rules, you do what’s expected, simple. But for Margaret, it wasn’t simple. And that irritated me more than anything.

I couldn’t understand it. Why couldn’t she just be more like me? Why couldn’t she be more responsible, more serious, more concerned with doing things properly? Why did I have to cover for her mistakes? Why did I have to do her chores when she forgot? Why did I have to make excuses for her when father asked why something wasn’t done? It seemed profoundly unfair. I was doing everything right, following every rule, meeting every expectation, and she was getting by doing half of what she should, less than half sometimes, and nobody seemed to notice. Nobody seemed to care.

Oh, father would scold her when he caught her. But it never changed anything. She’d apologize and promise and then do it again. And somehow she got away with it. Somehow she remained father’s sweet Margaret even when she failed to do what she was supposed to do. That made me angry, made me resentful, made me work even harder to be perfect, to be above reproach, to be the daughter who never failed, never disappointed, never required covering for or making excuses for.

As we got older, the differences between us grew more pronounced, more obvious, more frustrating to me. I became more rigid, more proper, more concerned with doing things exactly the right way, the proper way, the way mother and father expected. I internalized all their rules, made them my own, became even stricter with myself than they were. I measured everything I did against what was proper, what was right, what was appropriate. And I always came up short in my own estimation. Could have done better. Should have been more careful. Should have thought ahead more. This constant self-judgment became who I was.

Margaret became more free. That’s the only word I have for it, free. As she grew into a young woman, she seemed to shed the weight that pressed down on the rest of us. She’d laugh at things that weren’t funny. Laugh for no reason at all sometimes, just because she felt like laughing. She’d say things that weren’t proper, observations that were too honest, comments that made people uncomfortable. She’d question father’s rules, not openly, not in a way that would get her in serious trouble, but little things, little rebellions.

When father said girls shouldn’t ride horses astride, only side-saddle, Margaret argued it was impractical. When mother insisted we wear our hair a certain way, Margaret would wear it differently the next day. Nothing major, nothing that caused real conflict. Just small assertions of independence, small declarations that she was her own person with her own thoughts and somehow she got away with it. Somehow father would shake his head and say, “That’s Margaret,” and let it go. If I had done those things, he would have been furious, would have lectured me about propriety and obedience. But with Margaret, he was lenient, indulgent even.

That made me angry. Made me feel like all my effort to be perfect was pointless, that it didn’t matter, that being responsible and proper and perfect wasn’t valued as much as being charming and free and careless.

When I was 20, I married a man named George Bennett. He owned land near Father’s Mill. Good land. He was steady, reliable, responsible like me. Father approved of the match. Said George would provide well, that I’d have a good life with him. He was right about that. George did provide well. We had a good house, six children over the years. I kept a clean house, cooked good meals, raised the children properly, did everything a wife should do. I was proud of my life, proud of my house, proud of my children, everything in its place, everything done right.

Margaret married two years after me. A man named Daniel Foster. He was different from George. Not as steady, not as reliable. He was charming. Everyone said so. Handsome, good talker. But he didn’t have much. Didn’t own land. Worked odd jobs. Sometimes worked at father’s mill. Sometimes worked for other people. Never seemed to stick with anything long. Never seemed to save money. Margaret didn’t seem to care. She loved him. You could see it in her face when she looked at him. The way her whole face lit up. The way she laughed at his jokes. The way she touched his arm when they talked.

I didn’t approve. Thought she should have chosen better. Someone more like George. Someone stable. Someone who could provide properly. I told her so before the wedding. Told her she was making a mistake. That she’d regret marrying someone like Daniel, someone who couldn’t provide. She just smiled at me. That infuriating smile. Maybe, she said. But I’d rather be happy with Daniel than comfortable with someone I don’t love.

That made me angry. Made me feel like she was saying I didn’t love George. That I’d chosen comfort over love. That wasn’t true. I did love George, just in a different way. A sensible way. A grown-up way.

After Margaret married, we saw less of each other. She lived in town. I lived on George’s farm, three miles apart, not far, but far enough that we didn’t see each other every day like we used to. We’d see each other at church on Sundays, at family gatherings. But it wasn’t the same. We were both busy with our own lives, our own houses, our own husbands, our own children. Margaret had three children, all boys, wild boys who ran around and made noise and got dirty. My children were better behaved, quieter, more proper. I made sure of that.

The trouble started small, so small I barely noticed at first. Little things that built up over the years, like dust collected in corners. Margaret would come to family dinners late, not terribly late, 15 minutes, 20, but late. She’d arrive flustered, apologizing, laughing it off. Say Daniel lost track of time fixing something. Say one of the boys needed help with something. Say they couldn’t find someone’s shoe. Always some excuse, some reason why they couldn’t arrive on time like everyone else.

I’d arrive on time, always on time, exactly on time. George and I and our children, we’d be there when mother said to be there, not a minute late. It bothered me that Margaret couldn’t do the same. Seemed to show a lack of respect, a lack of consideration, a lack of basic courtesy. If mother said dinner at 5, you arrived at 5. Not 5:15, not 5:20, five. It wasn’t difficult. It just required planning, discipline, things Margaret apparently couldn’t manage.

Then there was her house. I visited once when the children were young. Margaret had invited me for tea. Said she wanted to show me the house. It was small, much smaller than mine. Two rooms downstairs, two rooms upstairs. Nothing fancy, but it could have been nice, could have been cozy and welcoming. Instead, it was a mess. An absolute mess.

Toys everywhere, on the floor, on the furniture, under the table, wooden blocks and tin soldiers and rag dolls scattered throughout every room. Dishes in the sink from breakfast, maybe from the night before, stacked up, waiting to be washed. Laundry piled on a chair by the fire. Clean laundry presumably, but not folded. Not put away, just piled there like someone had forgotten about it. The floor needed sweeping. Crumbs under the table, mud tracked in from outside. The whole place had that cluttered, chaotic feeling of a house no one was really managing.

Margaret didn’t seem bothered by it. Didn’t apologize for the state of things. Just offered me tea like everything was fine, like her house wasn’t falling apart around her, like she couldn’t see what I was seeing. Or maybe she could see it and simply didn’t care. That might have been worse.

I couldn’t hide my disapproval. Couldn’t hide the way I looked around at the mess. The way my face must have shown what I was thinking. How can you live like this? How can you let your house get like this? Don’t you have any pride? Any standards? Margaret noticed. I saw something change in her face. something close off like a door shutting. Her smile became fixed, polite, but not warm. But she didn’t say anything, didn’t tell me to leave, didn’t defend herself or her house, just poured the tea with hands that shook slightly and changed the subject to the weather.

We drank our tea in awkward silence. I left early, said I had things to do. She didn’t try to convince me to stay longer, just walked me to the door and said goodbye. I walked home angry. Angry at the state of her house, angry that she didn’t seem to care. Angry that she’d wasted the visit by not even trying to make things presentable.

It never occurred to me that maybe she had tried. That maybe with three small boys and a husband who worked long hours, keeping the house perfect simply wasn’t possible. That maybe she was doing the best she could. And my judgment made her feel small and inadequate. I didn’t think about that. Didn’t consider her perspective. I only saw what I saw. the mess, the disorder, the failure to maintain proper standards.

I started making comments, little ones, not mean, just observations, about how she should keep her house better, how her children needed more discipline, how Daniel should find better work, how they should save money instead of spending it on nonsense. Margaret would nod, say, “You’re probably right, Harriet.” But she wouldn’t change, wouldn’t do things differently. That frustrated me. If she knew I was right, why wouldn’t she change? Why wouldn’t she be more like me? Why wouldn’t she do things the proper way?

The breaking point came in 1876. I was 33. Margaret was 31. It was at mother’s birthday dinner. The whole family was there. Father and mother, my brothers and their families, George and me with our children, Margaret and Daniel with their boys. The table was crowded. Too many people for mother’s dining room. But we made it work. Always did.

During dinner, Margaret mentioned that Daniel had been offered a job. A real job. A good job. managing a store in Ohio, good pay, steady work. They’d have to move, leave Pennsylvania, leave the family. But it was an opportunity, a chance for Daniel to prove himself, a chance for them to do better. Margaret seemed excited, nervous, but excited. She looked around the table, waiting for someone to say something.

I spoke first. Shouldn’t have, should have kept quiet, but I didn’t. Ohio, I said. That’s a terrible idea. Daniel will mess it up like he messes up everything else. You’ll be stuck out there with no family, no support, and no money when it all falls apart.

The words came out harder than I meant them. Harsher. But I thought I was being honest. thought I was being helpful, warning her, protecting her from making another mistake.

The table went silent. Everyone stopped eating, stopped talking, just stared. Margaret’s face went white, then red. Her eyes filled with tears. Daniel put his hand on her arm, started to say something. But Margaret stood up, pushed her chair back so hard it almost fell over.

“We’re leaving,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “Boys, get your coats.”

Daniel tried to calm her down, told her to sit, to finish dinner, but she wouldn’t. She grabbed her shawl, got the boys, left without saying goodbye to anyone, just walked out. Daniel followed her after apologizing to mother, apologizing for Margaret. The door closed behind them.

Everyone looked at me. Father, mother, my brothers, their wives, George. Even the children stopped playing and stared.

“What?” I said. Someone needed to tell her the truth. Someone needed to be honest.

Father cleared his throat, went back to eating. Conversation started again. Awkward conversation, forced conversation, but the dinner was ruined. Everyone knew it.

We left early. George didn’t say much on the way home. Just drove the wagon in silence. When we got home, he finally spoke. You were too hard on her, Harriet. He said, “She’s your sister. You should have been kinder.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t want to admit he might be right.

Margaret and Daniel moved to Ohio 3 weeks later. They didn’t tell me. Didn’t say goodbye. I found out from Mother. Mother said Margaret was hurt. Said she’d cried when she told mother what I’d said. said she didn’t want to see me, didn’t want to talk to me, that she needed time.

I was angry, I was hurt, I’d been honest. I’d been trying to help. And this was how she thanked me. By cutting me out, by leaving without a word, fine. If she wanted to be that way, fine. I had my own life, my own family. I didn’t need her. I was the older sister, the responsible one. If she wanted to make mistakes, that was her choice. I’d done my duty. I tried to warn her. It wasn’t my fault she didn’t listen.

Years passed. Mother would give me updates. Margaret and Daniel were doing well in Ohio. The store was successful. Daniel was good at it. The boys were growing up. They’d bought a house. Everything Margaret had hoped for was coming true.

I was happy for her. I told myself I was happy for her. But there was something bitter underneath. Something that felt like resentment, like maybe I’d been wrong, like maybe she’d made the right choice and I’d been cruel for no reason.

I thought about writing to her, thought about apologizing. Several times I sat down with paper and pen started letters. Dear Margaret, I’m sorry for what I said. I was wrong. But I never finished them. Never sent them. Pride got in the way. I couldn’t admit I’d been wrong. Couldn’t admit I’d hurt her. Couldn’t make myself vulnerable like that. So I waited. Waited for her to reach out first. Waited for her to forgive me. waited for her to make the first move, but she never did and I never did. And the years kept passing.

10 years went by, then 20. Mother died in 1892. Margaret came back for the funeral. I saw her at the church. She looked older, gray in her hair, lines around her eyes, but still Margaret, still with that light in her face. Daniel was with her, still handsome, still charming. The boys were men now, grown. One was married.

Margaret saw me across the church. Our eyes met. I thought maybe this would be it. Maybe she’d come over. Maybe we’d talk. Maybe we’d fix this. But she looked away. Didn’t come over. Sat on the other side of the church with Daniel and the boys. After the service, she left quickly. Didn’t stay for the gathering afterward. Didn’t say goodbye, just left.

Father died two years later. Same thing. Margaret came back. We were in the same room, same building, but we didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at each other. It was like we were strangers, like we’d never been sisters. Like we’d never shared a room or secrets or anything. My brothers noticed. Henry asked me why Margaret and I weren’t speaking. I told him it was complicated. Told him it was old business. Told him to let it go. He did. Everyone did. Nobody wanted to get involved. Nobody wanted to force us to reconcile. So they didn’t. And the silence continued.

In 1900, I heard from my brother William that Margaret was sick. Something with her lungs. Pneumonia maybe or consumption. He wasn’t sure. She’d written to him asking him to come visit. Said she wanted to see family. Wanted to see Pennsylvania again. William was planning to go to Ohio. Asked if I wanted to come with him. I said no. Said I was too busy. said I had my own family to take care of. Said I couldn’t just leave for a trip to Ohio.

He looked at me for a long moment. She’s your sister, Harriet. He said she might be dying. I told him not to be dramatic. Told him Margaret was always dramatic. Told him she’d be fine.

He left without me.

A month later, William came back. Came to my house on a Tuesday morning. George answered the door. Let him in. Called for me. I was in the kitchen making bread, kneading dough. My hands were covered in flour. I wiped them on my apron and came to the parlor.

William was standing by the window, not sitting, just standing, looking out. His face was drawn, tired, like he hadn’t slept. I knew from his face that something was wrong. Something terrible.

“She’s gone,” he said. Didn’t turn to look at me. Just kept looking out the window. Just said it flat. She’s gone.

Margaret had died two days before he got there. Two days. He’d missed her by 48 hours. If he’d left a day earlier, if the train had been faster, if anything had been different, he might have made it. Might have seen her, might have held her hand, might have told her she was loved. But he didn’t make it. Got there too late. The funeral had already happened the day before he arrived. Daniel and the boys had buried her in the cemetery in town. A small funeral, just them and a few neighbors, a few friends from church, nobody from Pennsylvania, nobody from her family except the grave and the flowers and the memories.

William had gone to the grave, brought flowers, white roses, Margaret’s favorite, but that was all he could do. All any of us could do now. She was in the ground. She was gone. and I’d never see her again, never hear her voice, never have the chance to tell her I was sorry.

I don’t remember much about the rest of that day. The details are blurry, fragmented. I remember William stayed for a few hours. Told me about the grave, about how Daniel looked. Broken, he said. Absolutely broken. The boys, too. All of them devastated. Margaret had been the light in that house. The warmth, the laughter, and now she was gone, and they didn’t know how to manage without her.

William said Daniel asked about me. Asked if I might come for a visit. William had to tell him probably not. Had to explain without really explaining that Margaret and I hadn’t spoken in years, that we’d had a falling out. Daniel nodded like he already knew, like Margaret had told him, like she’d carried that hurt all those years.

William asked me what happened between us, why we stopped speaking. I couldn’t tell him, couldn’t get the words out, just shook my head, started crying. He didn’t push, just sat with me for a while, then he left. Said he needed to get home to his family. said he was sorry. Sorry for my loss. Like Margaret had been mine to lose. But she hadn’t been mine in 24 years. I’d given up that right. Given up my sister, given up any claim to grief, but I grieved anyway. Grieved like I hadn’t grieved for anyone, not even for mother or father.

I remember George tried to talk to me, tried to comfort me, put his arm around me. I pushed him away. Didn’t want comfort. Didn’t deserve it. This was my fault, my doing. I’d done this. I’d destroyed my relationship with my sister. I’d let pride and stubbornness keep me from making things right. And now she was dead, gone. And I’d never be able to fix it. Never be able to take back what I said. Never be able to apologize. Never be able to tell her be I loved her. that she’d been right about Daniel, right about Ohio, right about everything, that I’d been wrong. Wrong to judge her, wrong to criticize her, wrong to value being right over being kind. I’d been wrong about everything. And now it was too late to tell her, too late to make amends, too late for anything but regret.

I remember going to my room, sitting on the bed, the same bed I’d slept in for 40 years, George’s bed, our bed, and then the weight of it hit me. Really hit me. Not just the knowledge that Margaret was dead, but the full weight of what that meant. She was gone. My sister, my only sister, the girl I’d shared a room with, shared secrets with, grown up with. She was gone. And I’d never apologized, never said I was sorry, never told her I’d been wrong. Never told her I loved her. Never fixed what I’d broken.

24 years. 24 years of silence and pride and stubbornness and foolish certainty that I was right. 24 years I could have written a letter, could have visited, could have swallowed my pride and reached out. 24 years of chances, of opportunities, of moments when I could have made it right. And I’d wasted every single one. wasted them because I was too proud, too stubborn, too convinced that she should apologize first, that she should make the first move, that I was the injured party. And now those 24 years were gone, wasted. And she was gone. And there were no more chances, no more opportunities, no more moments, just the crushing finality of death. and the knowledge that I’d failed her. Failed myself. Failed us both.

I cried that night. Cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a child. George held me. Didn’t say anything. Just held me while I sobbed. While I said over and over, “I should have gone. I should have visited. I should have apologized.” He just held me. What else could he do? Nothing could fix it now. Nothing could bring her back. Nothing could give me those years back. They were gone. She was gone. And it was my fault.

That was 23 years ago. I’m 80 years old now. 80 years old. And I think about Margaret every single day. Every single day. I think about what I said to her. How I hurt her. How I was too proud to apologize. How I wasted 24 years. How I let my stubbornness cost me my sister. That’s my biggest regret. Not that I was cruel to her that night at dinner. That was bad. That was terrible. But the worst part, the part I can’t forgive myself for. I never apologized. Never made it right. I had 24 years. 24 years to write a letter, to visit, to say I was sorry, to tell her I loved her, to fix what I’d broken, and I didn’t. I was too proud, too stubborn, too sure I was right, too unwilling to admit I was wrong.

I tell myself, I thought there’d be more time. I thought we’d fix it eventually. I thought one day she’d come visit or I’d go see her and we’d talk and it would all be okay. I thought I had time, but you never have as much time as you think. You never know when it’s going to run out. Margaret was only 57 when she died. 57, not old, not young, just gone. And with her when any chance I had to make things right.

People ask me about her sometimes. The younger people, grandchildren, great grandchildren. They ask if I had siblings. I tell them yes. I had a sister named Margaret. They ask what she was like. I tell them she was beautiful, funny, kind, that she loved her family, that she was happy. All of that is true. But I don’t tell them the rest. Don’t tell them I hurt her. Don’t tell them I was cruel. Don’t tell them I never apologized. Don’t tell them I let pride destroy the most important relationship I had besides George. I keep that to myself. Carry it like a stone in my chest. Heavy. Always there. Never getting lighter.

I’ve apologized to her in my head a thousand times. a thousand thousand times lying in bed at night, sitting on the porch during the day in church on Sundays. I close my eyes and imagine her sitting next to me. Imagine saying, “Margaret, I’m sorry. I was wrong. I was cruel. I should have been kinder. I should have supported you. I should have been a better sister.” I imagine her smiling. Imagine her saying, “It’s all right, Harriet. I forgive you.” I imagine us hugging, being sisters again. But it’s just my imagination. Just wishful thinking. She’s not here to forgive me. She never will be. I had my chance and I wasted it.

If I could go back, I’d change everything. I’d bite my tongue at that dinner. I’d let her tell her news and I’d be happy for her. I’d tell her Ohio sounded like a wonderful opportunity. I’d tell her I was proud of her, proud of Daniel for getting that job. I’d hug her and wish her well and tell her to write to me. And when she left for Ohio, I’d write to her every week, every month. I’d tell her about my life and ask about hers. I’d visit. I’d make the trip to Ohio. I’d see her house, meet her friends, see how happy she was, and I’d tell her I was sorry, forever doubting her. Forever thinking my way was the only right way.

But I can’t go back. Can’t change it. Can’t fix it. That’s what I’ve learned. You can’t undo the past. Can’t unsay words. Can’t undo hurt. You have to live with your mistakes. Live with your regrets. Live with the knowledge that you failed someone you loved. That’s the punishment. Not guilt from other people. Not anger from family. Just your own knowledge of what you did, what you didn’t do, what you destroyed through pride and stubbornness and the foolish belief that you were always right.

I’ve tried to be different with my children, with my grandchildren. I’ve tried to be kinder, less rigid, less sure that my way is the only way. When my daughter Anna wanted to marry a man I didn’t approve of, I kept my mouth shut, smiled, welcomed him into the family. They’ve been married 20 years now. They’re happy. He’s been a good husband, a good father. I was wrong about him, just like I was wrong about Daniel. But this time, I didn’t let my pride ruin a relationship. This time, I learned from my mistake. Even though it was too late for Margaret, it wasn’t too late for Anna.

When my son Robert told me he was moving to California, I didn’t say what I thought. Didn’t tell him it was a terrible idea. Didn’t tell him he was making a mistake. I hugged him. Told him I’d miss him. told him to write. Told him I loved him. And he did write every month. He’s been in California for 15 years now. He’s doing well. Has a good job, a good family. He comes back to visit when he can. We have a good relationship because I didn’t do to him what I did to Margaret. I learned. Too late for her, but not too late for him.

That’s the lesson, I suppose. The thing I learned too late. Love is more important than being right. Relationships are more important than pride. Family is more important than your ego. You can be right about everything and still lose everything that matters. You can be proper and responsible and do everything correctly and still destroy the people you love. Being right doesn’t matter if it costs you the people who matter most.

I wish I’d learned that lesson earlier. Wish I’d learned it before it cost me my sister. But I didn’t. And now I have to live with that. Have to carry that regret for however much time I have left. Could be a year, could be five years, could be tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. However long I live, I’ll carry this with me. The knowledge that I had a sister who loved me, who I loved. And I threw that away because I was too proud to say I was sorry, too stubborn to admit I was wrong, too foolish to realize that time runs out.

If you have someone you need to apologize to, do it now. Don’t wait. Don’t think you’ll have more time. Don’t let pride stop you. Don’t let stubbornness keep you from saying the words. Say them. Say you’re sorry. Say you were wrong. Say you love them. Say whatever needs to be said. Because one day it will be too late. One day they’ll be gone and you’ll be left like me with regrets, with guilt, with the crushing knowledge that you had your chance and you wasted it.

I see Margaret sometimes in my dreams. She’s young again. We’re young again. Back in that room we shared as children. She’s laughing at something. That laugh she had light and free. I try to tell her I’m sorry. Try to tell her I was wrong. But I can’t speak. The words won’t come. And then I wake up and she’s gone again. And I’m old again. And it’s too late again. always too late.

I’ll die with this regret. I know that it’ll be the last thing I think about. Not my children or my grandchildren or my long marriage to George or anything else I did right. I’ll think about Margaret. About what I said to her. About what I didn’t say. About all the years we lost. About how I let pride destroy the bond between us. That’s what I’ll take with me when I go. That regret, that knowledge that I failed her, failed myself, failed us both.

That’s the one thing I regret most. Not apologizing to my sister, not making things right when I had the chance. letting 24 years pass in silence because I was too proud to write a letter, too stubborn to admit I was wrong. That’s my greatest failure, my deepest regret, the one thing I’d change if I could go back.

But I can’t go back. None of us can. We can only move forward. Carrying our regrets, learning from our mistakes, trying to do better with the time we have left. I’ve tried to do better, tried to be kinder, less judgmental, more forgiving. But it doesn’t change what happened with Margaret. Doesn’t undo the hurt I caused. Doesn’t give me back those years.

It’s too late for her. But maybe it’s not too late for someone reading this. Maybe someone out there has a sister or a brother or a friend they’ve been too proud to apologize to. Maybe someone is waiting for the right time, thinking they’ll fix it eventually.

Don’t wait. There is no right time. There’s only now. before it’s too late, before they’re gone, before you’re left with nothing but regret and the knowledge that you had your chance and you let it slip away.

That’s what I’d tell my younger self if I could. That’s what I’d say to that 33-year-old woman who said those cruel words at mother’s birthday dinner. I’d tell her to swallow her pride, to apologize immediately, to not let a single day go by without making it right, to not waste 24 years in stubborn silence, to not lose her sister over something so foolish.

But I can’t tell her that. She’s gone. That version of me is gone. And Margaret is gone. And all I have left is regret. deep, endless, crushing regret. That’s the one thing I regret most.