My mother’s apologies were not gentle things. They arrived after the storm—after the shouting that peeled paint, after the slammed doors that left hairline fractures in the walls, after the hours of silence so thick you could choke on it. Then, finally, she would appear in my doorway, eyes red-rimmed, and whisper, “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help it. You make me so angry.”
It shows that she is willing to discard her "parental ego" to save the relationship. The Aftermath: the day my mother made an apology on all fours