He set the table, as he did every Sunday, and stared out the window. He knew they wouldn’t come. They never did, not anymore. Still, he watched and waited, a sort of penance for what he’d done—a way to say sorry without actually saying the word again. He’d said it too many times. That word had lost its meaning.
He mentally replayed that night from so long ago. He wasn’t ready to let go of his regret—not yet, not ever. His wife and daughter were gone because of his mistake. He should have never been behind the wheel.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.