This coronavirus year has left me thinking about the art of apology and the value of forgiveness

My son looked at me as if I’d told him that all the monsters he’d ever feared were real, and that they were on their way to eat him.

“I have to go back?” he faltered.

You better believe he had to go back.

You don’t ring doorbells and run away when I’m around. Not on my watch, and my watch wasn’t going to be over until this kid was well past 18.

We went back, me marching ahead, him dragging his feet behind. This was going to be an early, salient and hopefully well-remembered lesson in respect for my seven-year-old boy.

The front door of the house he’d hit was now opening, and there stood a…