"I am sorry I judged you," I told her, tears running down my face. "I was wrong about you for so long."
She finally looked up, and for the first time in three years, I saw her smile. A real one.
"No, dear," she said softly. "I was the one who was wrong. I should have said it all out loud."
I hugged her right there on the street. She stiffened for a second, then hugged me back, tighter than anyone had ever hugged me.
Today, she comes over every Sunday. She still does not say much, but now I understand her language. A casserole left on the porch. A scarf knitted in my favorite color. A tiny note in my lunch bag.
Sometimes the people who seem the coldest are simply the ones who never learned how to say "I love you." They say it in actions, quietly, and we only notice when we finally stop to look.
