I apologized to her that day, of course, over and over, until she finally took my face in both her flour-scented hands and told me to stop, that she understood, that anyone would have thought the same, that it was already forgiven and forgotten.

But I have never fully forgiven myself for the banana bread, for the gift in her hands and the accusation in mine, and I do not think I want to.

I think a small permanent tenderness of guilt about that moment is a good thing to carry, a reminder to always, always give the people I love the chance to explain before I decide what their closed doors mean.

Chapter 18 — Just Breathe