Irina, 26, received a lockdown apology email from her first boyfriend.
It was another
Friday evening in lockdown, of staring at a computer screen, toggling between
news sites and social media, when the email from James arrived.
Irina waited a beat,
trying to recall the last time she had thought of her first boyfriend, before
clicking it open.
“Irina, I know
this is out of the blue and years too late,” it began, “but this is a
message I need to send.”
She had been 16 and
ready for a boyfriend when she met James. It seemed like a normal step a girl
her age should take.
So much of her life
hadn’t been typical.
Born in Moscow,
Irina had come to the UK on a two-week student exchange and liked the education
system here. At the age of 14 she told her parents she wanted to leave Russia
and go to a British boarding school.
After initial
hesitation, they gave in. Irina’s mother had been a railway conductor from a
rural part of Russia when she fell in love with Irina’s father, a passenger on
her train. She was 19, he was 30. Weeks later she packed her bags and knocked
on his door, 1,000 miles away, informing him that they should now live
together. How could they deny their daughter her own big adventure?
Arriving in England,
Irina felt the culture shock immediately. Growing up in Moscow, Irina’s
inner-city school had been, in her words, “hardcore”. There were
fights in the toilets and open bullying. Here, she was amused by mandatory
chapel visits and the invisible social hierarchies of an English school.
Irina found her way
into the ecosystem and made friends. Over time, and after a giggly afternoon in
a park, one boy in particular caught her eye.
James fitted the
brief for a cool boyfriend. He was cute. He was funny. At 17, he was a year
older than Irina. He was tall, too.
They texted over the
next few weeks, and soon their relationship became official, though the cracks
appeared right away.
“When you’re
that age, status amongst friends is very important,” Irina says. “And
it was very important for James to appear cool.”
In public there were
jokes at Irina’s expense among their mutual friends. In private, James was
frustrated if she appeared to be better than him at some things.
“If I was
better than him at crosswords he would be insulted and say, ‘But you’re
Russian, your English shouldn’t be as good as mine,’” Irina says.
“And I would reassure him by saying, ‘It’s not, I’m just good at
crosswords.’”
Eventually, two
years later, Irina was told by mutual friends that James had confessed he’d
cheated on her.
Irina ended the
relationship abruptly, distancing herself as best she could, telling him she
didn’t want contact.
She moved to a
different city for university and a fresh start.
James texted
sporadically over the next couple of years – always on her birthday, and to wish
her happy new year. Eventually, after one exchange, Irina suggested to James
that for them to successfully move on it would be better if they cut contact
altogether.
James’ response was
swift and icy. He wasn’t trying to get back together with Irina, he wrote. Then
he told her to never message him again.
Irina stared at the
message and responded, Lol.
That, she decided,
would be the end of this chapter of her life.
Years passed and
Irina moved again, settling into a tech job. Now at ease making friends, she
found her rhythm in a new city.
When coronavirus
hit, Irina’s work sent her a keyboard and a large monitor so she could work
from home.
And then the email
from James arrived.
In the
800-word-message, James explained that lockdown had forced him to assess his
own past behaviour, and he felt he owed her an apology for his immaturity all
those years ago.
He apologised about
how he had behaved, saying that he felt mortified when he read the texts he had
sent her.
And then he made a
stunning confession. He had never actually cheated on Irina – that too had been
a lie to impress their friends.
He went on to write
that he had been volunteering to help vulnerable communities during lockdown
and now was a time for true reflection and for people to be kinder to one
another.
Transported back in
time, with a mix of emotions she hadn’t felt in years, Irina went for a walk to
clear her head.
When she got back,
she decided to reply. She told him to be kind to himself and said that everyone
has made mistakes, especially when they are young. And then she addressed his
apology.
I don’t have a
reaction to your apology. Perhaps I have forgiven you, perhaps I stopped
caring. I hope it brings you closure to know I feel no ill feelings towards
you.
She thought for a
moment, wondering if this was a fair response.
“I think he was
looking for redemption from me,” Irina says. “But it’s not really for
me to give it to him. He’s the only one who can give it to himself – forgive
himself.”
Irina sent the email
and went back to her computer, her evening and her life.
Nastaran
Tavakoli-Far is the co-host of The Gender Knot, a podcast that explores
cultural issues. She’s hosted “loads and loads and loads” of shows on
the psychology of an apology and what motivates someone to make one.
Lockdown, she says,
adds another dimension.
“There’s the
obvious reason why we are reflecting on our behaviour, we’ve all got a lot of
time to think. A lot of the things we do to avoid reflection aren’t possible
right now, like travelling, socialising, commuting.
“At the same
time it’s an opportunity to become thoughtful about your relationships and ask
all these big fundamental questions of the purpose in your life and what your
legacy is.”
But apologies need
to be thought through, she says.
“You should
never give an apology to feel better. Making an apology is only the first step
to making amends. You need to be ready for the person to respond in any way
they need, and not at all if they want.
“While you have
time to think about the bad things in the past, so does the person receiving
the apology, and you may trigger an emotion in them that they don’t necessarily
want right now.”
