My grandmother was born in 1890. On her deathbed, she gripped my hand and told me her greatest regret.
This was not, as one might expect from a life-long Christian, daily-Bible-reading woman, the illegal back-alley abortion she had to save her life, and not leave her three young children motherless. I don't doubt that she regretted the loss of that child, but she did not regret living to raise the three children of her body, her foster son, and, as it turned out, me.
No, not that. She told me, "I regret allowing myself to be frightened into voting for Nixon."
I suspect there are many more confessions like this coming in future, some from her own family. Some will confess to their own children or grandchildren, to pastors and priests, to therapists, or only deep in their own shamed hearts.
I grieved for her. I find it harder to grieve for the others.