It's all about me

Dear Mother and Father,

I have another sin to confess. I had gotten a strange idea in my head that the Ashbourne curse might possibly be broken with sufficient training and practice, so I got in the habit of going into the mountainous wilderness and trying to fix discarded, broken pocketwatches. They usually explode, but as time has gone on, they have gradually exploded slightly less. I have learned several ways to handle them that make them slightly less likely to slip from my grasp and considerably less likely to explode due to things other than fumbling. But here is where my sin comes in: A man who lives between the mountain and the river--near where I sometimes go to practice not making things explode--has started packing up his things to move away. It's not just a trip; he's even disassembling his sawmill. The only reason I can think of that he might leave the area is my explosions. I saw him close up once, and he almost looks like you, Father, without your mask. His face is all burnt up as if he has his own clumsy fool of a daughter to blow up the steam engine she's asked to fix. (By the way, I'm still very, very sorry about that, Father. To this day I cannot believe my own incompetence in blowing up the first thing I was ever asked to salvage into a giant clank. If I live to be one hundred years old, the fourth year of my life will still be burned vividly in my memory and in my regrets.) I think I made a small sad-noise when I first noticed it, and then he yelled at me to get away even though I had been sure I was well hidden in the brush. I hope I didn't offend him personally--but I had thought he wasn't showing signs of committing that incident to memory, so I think it must be the explosions. He probably doesn't like explosions. I didn't like explosions at all for the first few months after blowing up the locomotive, and it was only desensitization from your own frequent Sparkish endeavors that took the edge off of them. (By the way, I am very sorry I failed to be a Spark and forced you to become an inventor yourself. If I were a better daughter, you wouldn't have to waste your adult years on things that should be started from the earliest age possible.)
In any case, I'm thinking of apologizing to the sawmill man for disturbing the peace and for maybe scaring him, but I don't want to upset him all over again. What do you think I should do?

Love always,
Your Shaqad