But not just yet. My mother never apologized.

And, at some point, I stopped waiting for her to.

Because I had finally learned the thing that had cost me a family home, and a relationship, and dozens of sleepless nights to learn: that forgiving someone does not mean granting them continuous permission to harm you.

That helping people does not mean subsidizing adults who hold you in contempt.

And that setting a firm boundary does not make you a bad person.