I swallowed.
Then spoke.
โClaire, there's something I need to say.โ
She became quiet.
I looked toward the motel window.
โI've been a lousy father.โ
She drew in a breath.
I continued before I could lose my courage.
โAfter your mother died, I shut everybody out.โ
My voice trembled.
โAnd when you tried to reach me, I made you feel like you were asking too much.โ
Claire said nothing.
I pressed my hand against my forehead.
โI told you I'd spent enough years being needed.โ
The words hurt just as much saying them now as they had the day I first spoke them.
I swallowed.
โThat was cruel.โ
There was a long silence.
Then my daughter whispered, โYeah, Dad. It was.โ
I closed my eyes.
She continued.
โDo you know what hurt the most?โ
I shook my head, forgetting she couldn't see me.
โNo.โ
โYou weren't the only one who lost Mom.โ
The sentence struck like a hammer.
I covered my face.
Claire continued.
โI needed you.โ
Her voice broke.
โI was trying to raise two kids. I missed her. I didn't know what to do with half the things she used to help me through.โ
I began crying.
She took a breath.
โAnd every time I called, you acted like talking to me was one more responsibility you couldn't handle.โ
I couldn't answer.
She continued.
โSo eventually, I stopped.โ
I sat there with tears running into my beard.
I wanted to explain.
I wanted to tell her grief had been unbearable.
That the house felt empty.
That sometimes I couldn't even look at Grace's photographs without breaking down.
But those explanations didn't erase what I'd done to my daughter.
So I didn't use them as excuses.
I simply said, โI'm sorry.โ
Claire went quiet.
I took a shaky breath.
โI'm sorry I abandoned you when you needed me.โ
For several seconds, I heard nothing.
Then she began crying.
I wiped my face.
โI don't expect you to fix this because I finally got brave enough to call.โ
She sniffled.
I continued.
โBut I want to try.โ
My voice broke.
โIf you'll let me.โ
There was a long pause.
Then she whispered, โI've missed you, Dad.โ
I covered my mouth.
โI've missed you too.โ
We talked for almost an hour.
About her children.
Her husband.
Work.
School.
The little things that make up a family.
She told me my grandson had learned to ride a bicycle.
I felt a sharp ache because I'd missed it.
My granddaughter had started reading chapter books.
I'd missed that too.
Claire didn't pretend those lost moments didn't matter.
Neither did I.