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My mind—like it has done repeatedly of late—goes to Lucy. I think she’d love it here with the mismatched furniture and the vintage-looking artwork. Maybe she comes here often, and I have no idea. There’s still so much about her that I don’t know. But I can see her here, sitting across from me, trying to one-up my boring coffee by ordering a double espresso.
“I’m glad you agreed to meet me,” my dad says, bringing my attention back to him. I don’t know if I realized how much he’s aged. He’s nearly thirty years older than me. I was a surprise baby after he and my mom were told they wouldn’t be able to have kids.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask, getting this show on the road.
He smiles, an uncomfortable-looking one, as he looks down at the paper cup in his hand, his thumb running over the corrugated cardboard of the coffee sleeve.
“I want to apologize,” he says.
I look at him, sizing him up, not all that surprised by his words. I figured that’s what he came here to say. The question is: how did my mom get him to do it?
“Mom asked you to come?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Of course, she’s wanted me to fix things with you for years, just as I’m assuming she’s asked you to do with me.”
I nod. She always finds a way to worm a reconciliation with my dad into our conversations. As if it’s that easy.
“But asking you to meet me here was on me,” he says. “We need to bury this hatchet, don’t you think?”
“Depends,” I say, giving him what I’m guessing is a bitter-looking smile.
“On what?” he asks.
“On what you’re apologizing for.”
He lets out a breath. “Oh, right. I guess ... going all the way back.”
“All the way?”
He dips his chin. “All the way. The fighting, the ... cheating. My neglect of you and your mom. All of it.”
I blink, not fully registering. The neglect? That’s what it was, for sure—why I spent so much time with the Price family and outside under that tree. But I don’t think I realized my dad recognized it for what it was. He’s never used the word before.
We sit there in silence for a bit. The sounds of the coffee machines behind the counter and the chatter from other patrons in the background.
“I was selfish,” my father says.
My eyes, which had been focusing on the paper cup in front of me, snap up to his. This is ... a genuine apology. My inattentive father, Patrick Shackwell, is saying things that the Graham twenty—hell, ten—years ago had wished for.
“And I did things I’m not proud of,” he keeps going.
I nod, taking in his words, not sure what to do with them.
“I ... appreciate it,” I say. “But I’m not sure what you’re hoping for here.” I know I sound like a jerk. But we’re talking about a thirty-four-year divide that’s been growing between us. I have barely any good memories of the man sitting across from me, and an apology in a coffee shop isn’t going to fix that.
“I’d like to try to build a relationship with you,” he says.
“Why?” I ask him.
“Why? Because you’re my son. My only son.” He reaches up and runs a hand down his face before saying, “I’m proud of you, you know.”
I scoff at that. Proud of what? That I’m a doctor? He doesn’t even know me. If he did, he wouldn’t be proud of the things I’ve done. This is where I can relate, I guess. I’ve also done things in my past that I’m ashamed of.
“I’ve been your only son for thirty-four years,” I say, feeling my resentment simmer. “Why now?”
He gives me a remorseful-looking smile. “I should have come to you sooner. I know that.”
“Why didn’t you?”
