Too Late for Sorry – A Story of Family, Guilt, and Forgiveness

“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving or not, Eric?” My mother’s voice crackled through the phone, carrying the same gentle urgency I’d heard since childhood. I stared at the glowing screen, the stress of another twelve-hour shift pressing down on my chest. The rain hammered the hospital windows behind me, streaking the world outside into smudged gray lines.

My thumb hovered over the End Call button. “I can’t, Mom. I’m on call. Maybe Christmas.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretches between two people who both know the truth but are too tired to say it out loud. “You always say maybe, honey.”

I swallowed, feeling the ache of exhaustion and guilt gnaw at me. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

She sighed. “Love you, Eric.”

“Love you too, Mom.” I hung up and leaned my head against the cold wall. I’d told myself since med school that someday I’d make it up to her, for all the birthdays and holidays I missed. For all the ways I let her carry the weight of our broken family alone after Dad left.

But someday always stayed just out of reach.

Two weeks later, my sister Claire called, her voice tight. “Eric, Mom collapsed. It’s her heart. She’s asking for you.”

I left the hospital that night with my white coat still on, driving six hours north through a blizzard to the small Michigan town I’d tried so hard to forget. Every mile, I replayed our last conversation, wishing I’d listened closer, stayed longer, said yes.

The house looked smaller than I remembered, the porch light flickering in the snow. Claire met me at the door, her red eyes a mirror of my own shame. “She’s upstairs.”

I found Mom in her old bedroom, an oxygen tube in her nose, her skin waxy and fragile. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, but the smile faded quickly. “You made it.”

I tried to smile. “Always do.”

She reached for my hand, her grip weak. “You work too much, Eric. You always did. Even as a kid, you were running somewhere else.”

I felt the sting of old wounds. “I was trying to make you proud. After Dad… I thought if I worked hard enough, I could fix things.”

She laughed softly, bitter and sweet. “I never needed you to fix anything. I just wanted you to come home.”

I looked away, blinking back tears. The room was thick with things unsaid—years of missed calls, short visits, arguments with Claire about who did more, who cared more.

The next day, I sat in the kitchen while Claire made coffee, her movements sharp and angry. “You know what kills me?” she snapped. “You only show up when it’s already too late. She needed you, Eric. Not your money, not your fancy job. You.”

I flinched. “I know.”

She slammed the mug down. “You don’t know. You’re always gone. Even now, you’re half here, half back in Chicago.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, but the words sounded hollow, even to me.

Mom died that night. I was holding her hand, but I couldn’t remember if I’d told her I loved her again, or if I’d just sat there, drowning in guilt.

The weeks after the funeral passed in a blur of casseroles, condolences, and awkward silences. People kept telling me, “She was proud of you. She talked about you all the time.” But I knew better. I knew the truth that lived in the spaces between our words—the regret, the loneliness, the hope I’d never quite fulfilled.

After everyone left, Claire and I stood in the empty living room, the walls covered in faded family photos. She pointed to one of me and Mom, taken the day I graduated college. “She waited for you, you know. Every holiday. Every birthday. She set a place for you at the table, just in case.”

I broke then, sobbing into my hands. “I’m sorry, Claire. I really am.”

She hugged me, her anger melting into grief. “We all are, Eric. We all are.”

Now, months later, back in my Chicago apartment, I stare at my phone every night, half expecting it to ring. I think about calling Claire, about visiting her and her kids more often, about finally showing up. I think about forgiveness—hers, mine, Mom’s—and wonder if it’s ever really too late.

Did I waste all my chances? Or is there still time to fix what I broke?

What would you do, if you woke up tomorrow and realized you’d run out of tomorrows to say you’re sorry?