“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
It’s all she could say.
What for? What was she sorry for, being wheeled away from me on a stretcher, in an ambulance, her slippers soaked in blood, still in last night’s pajamas? Who was she apologizing to? Surely not me, her daughter, who wasn’t even there to pull off the dog, to calm her screams, to apply pressure to her wrist as she bled on the ground?
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
