After a long silence, he sighed. “I did visit once,” he admitted. “The year after we lost him. I brought flowers. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for not being there enough. But it hurt too much. I never went back.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
Ellen studied him, searching for deceit, but found only exhaustion. The man before her wasn’t the cold stranger who’d walked out of a hospital corridor three years ago. He looked smaller, humbled. “You could’ve told me,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d want to know or hear from me,” he whispered.