"You Left"

Traffic rushed by outside; a cacophony of horns and engines idling as anxious drivers fought their way through the late afternoon gridlock. Inside, ears were treated to the barista's lyrical voice shouting out names, then orders, then names over and over again.

Though the scent of roasting coffee beans permeated the air, he felt as though nearby customers could smell his odor. He was nervous and suffered from excessive sweating...despite the autumn chill coming in through the front door of the café.

Will I recognize her?

His thoughts hammered at his temples, a chaos of faltering nerves and raw emotion were veiled beneath a calm mask; only the habit of picking at an elbow gave any indication of discomposure.

It's 5 o'clock. She said she'd be here at 5 o'clock. Where is she?

He had arrived much earlier, 4 o'clock if he remembered right, and the time spent waiting had led him down a path of reflection. Like a house of mirrors, his memories were warping in his old age, but he knew what he had done. And what it did to her. To both of them.

A ragged nail on his pointer finger picked too hard at his too-dry elbow and drew blood; it went unnoticed before dripping onto the wood floor. One could scarcely see it, but it was there. A reminder of the moments spent in anxious agony.

A city bus pulled over across the street to let off passengers, its shrieking brakes punctuated his internal torment.

The picking stopped for a moment.

He closed his eyes, tight.

He saw a young child with a scraped knee; the same child learning to swim; the same child again, older now, watching in shadow from a window on a frigid winter day, condensation from her breath giving her away. It was the last memory of her, but not the strongest. That honor was bestowed to playful wrestling in a leaf pile all but a few months earlier.

The next memories were the numerous letters, then emails, sent over the years. Deleted or torn, ignored. Some he read, most he didn't. What did they even say? It'd been too long.

The last image in his montage wasn't old at all. He sees it every day. His face in a mirror sporting fine cracks akin to his wrinkles. When had he gotten so old? So gray? So worn?

The last email had come in thirty years after the first letter:

"Hi, Dad. Mom is gone. She still asked for you at the end."

He felt the bile rise in his throat at the memory, an all-to-familiar tightness in his chest, just as when he first read that email months ago. He had only been able to muster the response 'Can we get coffee?'

It took him weeks to hit send. He lost track of how many hours he spent deleting and retyping the message. Closing the laptop just to reopen it a moment later. Only during a dark night of drinking until all rational judgement long gone and the tears and anger - at himself - could flow out no more, was he finally able to hit send.

So here he was, foot-tapping, elbow-picking, grayed, and wrinkled. Nervous, riddled with guilt and coated in shame. His coffee, the same cup from an hour prior, sitting cold and abandoned. Much like his family, he thought.

Through all the noise, eyes still shut, he heard a characteristic click of heels stop next to him. He opened his eyes, but kept them on the table. He still couldn't look at her, couldn't make a sound.

How do I have the right?

After a sigh, he heard her bag thump on the floor and a rustle of fabric as she sat in the chair opposite of him.

"Dad."

Before he could meet her eyes, everything froze.

"You left."