by Nic Olson
I know I am not as good looking as you’d hoped, and not as smart as I could have ended up being, and really, more embarrassing than anything. I remember trying to make you breakfast in bed as a kid on Mother’s Day, but ended up making dad do all the work while we watched cartoons, and then you probably did the dishes.
And all those times that we made chore lists and cooking lists that no one ever followed, and always complaining about supper, and never saying thank you, and burping at the dinner table, and swearing too often, and getting tattoos, and listening to loud music, and not cutting my hair, and rarely bathing.
And although at times it may seem like your kids are all screw ups, well, three of them at least, the decent qualities we have in us are because of you, and for that we all love you and think you’re pretty swell. Your patience is continually teaching me.
My apology letter is actually a thank you letter. For putting up with me for the past twenty-two plus years,
p.s. I tried calling, I swear.