Who Will Say "I'm Sorry" First?
By Ashlee Gadd
@ashleegadd
It doesn’t matter what we’re fighting about.
We could be arguing about the dishes, the laundry, the screen time rules, what time the children should go to bed. Like most couples, it’s never about the thing. It’s the thing underneath the thing that’s the real issue—I don’t feel loved, I don’t feel seen, known, respected.
It happens without warning, usually a snippy comment in the kitchen. A sharp response follows. Jaws get tight. Then, a rebuttal. A defense. The tone shifts; air leaves the room. Our kids’ eyes drift away from Curious George streaming on the iPad, half-eaten quesadillas in their hands. We agree to continue this later, away from tiny ears.
In the confines of our bedroom, we settle into round two. It starts slow and reasonable, moderately patient. An explanation is offered, a plausible justification. But somewhere (somehow?), it gets twisted again. The words get sharp, dangerous, like little drones carrying razors through the room. The voices get louder. Final words are spoken.
And then there’s the silence. The stewing.
For 13 years, I’ve always been able to outlast him here. I can stew all day. That summer afternoon we said, “I do” on the lawn, he had no clue he was marrying a professional stew-er.
It’s not that I can’t apologize, or that I won’t apologize. It’s just that I can hold out longer. Thirty minutes of stewing is enough to break him. Thirty minutes of stewing is nothing to me.
After a while, he will apologize first. Not because it’s all his fault, but because his desire for reconciliation outweighs his pride, every single time. I’ve never told my husband this before, but his willingness to apologize first is one of my favorite qualities about him.
I’ve been wondering lately if my unwillingness to apologize first is his least favorite quality about me.
***
My grandma and grandpa died last year. It still feels weird to type that, to say it out loud, to write the word “died” about anyone I know, let alone anyone I’m related to.
I had spoken to my grandma on her birthday, a few weeks before she passed. We made small talk for twenty minutes—quick updates on the kids, what she had for dinner. I was grateful she remembered who I was at all; her mind had been slipping for a while.
My grandpa, on the other hand, I had not spoken to in years.
I want to remember pleasant memories, like the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and how he always smelled of menthol. To this day, I don’t know if he smelled of aftershave, or mouthwash, or if his aftershave simply smelled like mouthwash. I want to remember how he called me “sweetie” and the hilarious day I first learned he wore a toupee. We were tubing at Lake Oroville, and his hat flew off his head into the water after the boat took a rather sharp turn. I was a young kid, probably eight? Nine? I remember sitting in the boat being swallowed by a life jacket, staring at his bald head utterly confused. Where is his hair? I had no idea the grey wig he donned at church each Sunday wasn’t real.
Somewhere along the line, things shifted between us. The memory that comes to mind is Thanksgiving day, standing in my kitchen with a toddler at my feet and a potato peeler in my hand. He stood inches away from me, spouting Bible verses in my face, accusing me of leaving the church. When in fact, I had left his church, not The Church.
He believed I was wrong. Lost. Living in sin. He told me as much while I listened, gritting my teeth and making a small mountain of potato skins on the cutting board. I attempted to defend myself, my choices, my faith. But he just shook his head disapprovingly, genuine concern and sore disappointment on his face.
A few years later, at a family reunion, a secret my grandpa had carefully hid most of his life was uncovered. In the explosive drama that unfolded, my grandpa—stubborn as hell—did not admit any wrongdoing whatsoever.
He never apologized.
And that was the end.
That secret broke everything and everyone. My grandparents stopped coming to Christmas. I still sent cards in the mail, a birth announcement after their one and only great-granddaughter was born. They never met my daughter, never even acknowledged her existence. My grandma’s mind was already fading by then; I never blamed her.
I’ve wondered many times since his death how this could have played out differently had my grandpa simply apologized. Had he said, just once, “I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
I wonder what he thought about in his final days, his final hours. Did he feel regret? Remorse? Did he take his pride to the grave?
A darker question I sometimes mull over at night—is that same stubbornness in my DNA?
***
Brett and I attended a wedding a few years ago where the bride and groom washed each other’s feet during the ceremony. One minute they were holding hands in front of a candle-lit room filled with flowers and loved ones, the next they were taking turns washing each other’s bare feet in a basin on the floor.
I’ve attended dozens of weddings over the course of my life, but that one was, by far, the most memorable. I remember how quiet the room became. How vulnerable and sacred it felt to witness something so intimate, so humble.
***
My husband and I still argue, to this day, over who made the first move 16 years ago.
I’d like the credit, since I’m the one who slyly memorized his AIM screen name and added him as a buddy the second I got home. He argues he opened his computer in front of me on purpose, so I’d do that very thing.
I’ve never been shy about making the first move. I once asked a boy to the Sadie Hawkins dance in front of the entire high school. I’ve asked for phone numbers and offered up mine, initiated play dates and offered to host. Go first is my best advice for women wondering how to make mom friends. Compliment her jeans. Strike up a conversation at the park. Ask if she wants to hang out sometime. Get her number, text a gif, invite her to happy hour. Making the first move comes naturally to me, especially when the stakes are low.
Especially when it doesn’t cost me anything.
Over the summer, I unintentionally hurt a friend. I had been careless with my language about something sensitive, and she was quick to confront me—in love—about how I had hurt her. I could not apologize fast enough. I think less than one minute transpired from me learning I had hurt her, and calling to apologize.
I’m so, so sorry, I said, please forgive me.
Why is it easier to apologize to a friend one minute after I’ve hurt them, and so much harder to apologize to my own husband? Why is it harder to humble myself with the people closest to me? To admit, quickly, that I’ve done something wrong? To lay down my pride first?
***
Here we are, again, arguing about who knows what. He leaves the bedroom, and I shut the door. I stew for a while, maybe an hour total, while he settles at the dining room table in front of a laptop. I hear him get on the phone at 9pm, a common occurrence with this new job that never stops. He sounds stressed. That familiar feeling starts creeping up my spine—guilt, compassion, remorse—all the things I am accustomed to shoving down in my heart in the name of being right.
I know if I wait it out, he will get off his call and come to bed and say, “I’m sorry.” Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s better at washing feet than I am.
Or is that just the excuse I’ve been using for the past 13 years?
I quietly slide open the bedroom door, slowly walk behind his chair, and wrap my arms around his chest. I do not say a word; he is still on the phone. I can only see his reflection in the window. But he smiles, and brings his arms up to meet mine.
Someone has to say, “I’m sorry” first.
Someone has to lay down their pride.
Offer to wash feet.
Make the first move.
For 13 years, that person has been my husband.
I’m starting to think maybe we should take turns.
Photo by Jillian Goulding.