The Hardest Word

It's been several days since Dad and I had a blue, and in that time, I neither spoke nor looked at him. I was simply too angry - at him and at myself for letting him get to me the way he did. It was easier to shut him out rather than work things out.

I know, I should know better but old habits die hard, and God only knows I've had plenty of practice.

I guess I'm as stubborn and full of pride as he is because from experience he would never be the one to reach out first, let alone apologise. How ironic! To be like father, like son.

It seems, though, time can prove anyone wrong.

Sitting in the local cafe today, engrossed with the newspaper, I didn't even see him approach. Only felt his hand on my shoulder.

"Your mum and I are on our way to the supermarket..."

Too startled to speak, I could only look at him.

"Did you want us to pick you up something?"

"Ah. No. Thanks. Dad."

"Okay, then. See you later."

I watch him walk out of the cafe and kept looking, even after he's rounded the corner out of sight.

He may not have said the word and it may not have been an actual apology, but I know, too, what that meant to him. Sorry.