He Pressed His Hand to the Glass — and She Used Her Last Breath to Forgive Him
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” he wept, pressing his hand to the glass. She used the last of her strength to make the trip, just to tell him goodbye.
Mark, 52, has been in prison for 15 years. He’d long ago given up on his own life, but he always held onto the hope of seeing his mother, Margaret, on the outside one day. To make it right.
Last week, he got the call. His 80-year-old mother’s cancer had returned, and it was aggressive. She was in hospice. She didn’t have long.
He begged for a compassionate visit, but the rules were strict. She was too frail and her immune system too weak to come to the main visiting hall. They had to use the no-contact partition.
When the nurse wheeled her in, his heart shattered. She was a skeleton, her skin paper-thin, a small oxygen tube in her nose. She looked like a strong wind could break her. But her eyes… her eyes were the same.
He pressed his face close to the glass, his hand shaking. “Mom…?”
She just smiled weakly, her voice a dry whisper he could barely hear through the partition. “I miss you so much, baby.”
All the years of wasted time, of failed promises, of causing her pain, came crashing down. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” he choked out, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry for everything. For not being there. For this.”
He pressed his palm to the cold glass, a desperate, childish need to hold her hand. With all the strength she had left, she lifted her frail hand and met his. It was the last time he ever saw her.
