Never Too Late

Quite a while ago now, I had to choose sides in an argument. I chose the wrong side. Not hindsight. I knew at the time that the Other Side was getting screwed over. And I was quite fond of the Other Side. We didn't talk after that.

While the details would most likely make for a very interesting blog, it would be impolitic of me to record them.

And 'struth, they don't matter so much. All you need to know is that my actions were predictable and understandable, but since then, whenever I have thought of the Other Side, I've felt a pang of guilt right around my eyes.

This week, I emailed him. I told him I was sorry, I told him that I knew he was right, I told him that I should have stood up for him.

He wrote back: he told me that at the time he'd wished we could talk; that my choice made sense to him. That he was happy to hear from me.

It was more relieving than I thought it would be. I think those small pangs, while they'll never keep you up at night, form themselves into a heavy invisible accretion lodged somewhere in your gut.

And what's the risk of correcting them? Why didn't I email him sooner? All I had to lose was the possibility of reconciliation. But I didn't, but now I have, and the next time, I won't wait.