The Last Apology

The rain had been falling for three days straight. Thick, cold drops slapping against pavement, pooling in the potholes on Cedar Avenue, filling the gutters until they overflowed like tired rivers. Nathan sat in his truck at the edge of the cul-de-sac, hands glued to the steering wheel, staring at the split-level house at the far end.

Number 218. Beige siding, white shutters, a basketball hoop over the garage. He knew the layout by heart. He’d memorized it years ago, back when he came here almost every day. Before the silence. Before he burned the bridge.

He checked the dashboard clock. 5:37 p.m. They’d be home by now — at least one of them would. Probably her.

His phone vibrated against the console. A text from his sister, Trina-

You sure about this?

Nathan stared at the words, the three blinking dots that never came. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and gripped the steering wheel harder, knuckles whitening.

“Sure?” he muttered. “Not even close

The door swung open.

Andrea. Same hazel eyes. Same sharp jaw. Shorter hair now — neat bob tucked behind her ears. She wore a gray sweater and jeans, simple as ever. For a second, Nathan’s lungs forgot how to work.

When she saw him, her face froze. Then shifted. Shock. Anger. Maybe both. “Nathan,” she said, flat as a slammed book.

His throat locked. He hadn’t heard his name in her voice for years. “Hey, Dea,” he managed. It cracked in the middle, like an old hinge.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t a slam-the-door tone either. That thin mercy gave him courage. “I need to talk to you,” he said. “Please.”

She stared. Long enough for the rain dripping from his jacket to pool on the welcome mat, smudging the cheery Home Sweet Home beneath his boots. Finally, her arms crossed — a barricade. “You’ve got two minutes.”

Two minutes. He’d rehearsed for six years and still had nothing. His tongue felt like ash.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, words tumbling out raw. “I’m sorry for what happened that night. For leaving you to deal with it alone. For not calling. For—”

“Stop.” Her voice cut through his like glass. “You don’t get to show up after six years and dump an apology on my doorstep like a package you forgot to mail.”

Nathan nodded, eyes falling to the wood grain. Rain drummed harder on the roof, beating like a second pulse. His spine curled under its weight. “I know,” he whispered. “But I had to try.”

Andrea’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Why now, Nathan? What’s the sudden urge? Guilt keeping you up at night?”

Every night. He wanted to say it quiet. Instead, it broke from him like a confession- “Yeah. Every night. The rain. The glass. The sound it made when—” He stopped. His throat burned. “I can’t turn it off, Dea. I close my eyes and it’s there. Headlights in the dark, like knives. Tires screaming. And I left. God, I left.”

Her mouth didn’t soften. Not really. Maybe her eyes, for half a heartbeat. “You think saying sorry fixes it? It doesn’t bring him back.”

The words detonated in his chest. Bring him back. Rain slamming the windshield. Headlights skewed, cutting sideways. A horn blaring too long, then breaking into silence.

He felt the crunch in his bones — metal folding like paper, ribs shattering under the force. And the scream — he never heard it, but his head kept inventing it, raw and endless. His lungs locked like they had that night, when he ran. Away. Always away. “I know,” he said, voice splintering. “Nothing will. But I can’t keep breathing like this. Pretending I didn’t wreck the only good thing I had.”

The silence stretched until it felt alive.

Rain filled it, relentless. Andrea’s eyes flicked to the street, then back. “My son’s upstairs,” she said finally, voice low and sharp. “He’s eight. He doesn’t know you exist. And that’s how it stays.”

Eight. The number cracked him open. A calculation he didn’t need — his gut did the math first. His breath snagged. His voice broke on a whisper. “Dea… is he—”

“Don’t.” Her jaw locked. Her hands trembled, barely, but her voice was iron. “You don’t get to ask about him. You gave up that right when you walked away.

The hallway behind her blurred. He blinked, hard, but it kept slipping. His chest felt like something collapsing inward, floor joists splintering under too much weight.

“Please,” he said, but the word tasted useless.

Andrea gripped the doorframe. “You’ve said your piece. Now go. And if you care about making amends — really care — you’ll stay gone this time.”

The door slammed. It cracked through the rain like a gunshot.

Nathan stood there, staring at the brass handle, the faint lavender smell drifting from the house. His body felt hollow, carved out.

Eight years old. The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he turned, boots grinding over gravel. Rain washed over him, cold needles biting his skin, but he didn’t feel it. Not really. He reached the truck, pulled the door open, and collapsed into the seat.

He sat there, dripping on the seat, the rain hammering the roof like it wanted in.

Eight. The number throbbed behind his eyes, a pulse synced with the storm. Eight years old. Eight years of silence. Eight years where his face should’ve been there, his voice. Instead — nothing. Just a ghost who ran.

Nathan gripped the steering wheel until his hands shook. The leather was slick under his palms, cold and wet, like skin left too long in the rain. Headlights flashed past on the street, white arcs slicing through the dark. His breath hitched. For a second, it wasn’t now.

It was then. Rain lashing sideways, windshield wipers thrashing like frantic arms.

The horn blaring, stretching, then breaking.

Metal crunching like bones snapping under weight. Silence after, so heavy it roared.

He blinked hard, yanked himself back — but the echoes clung, sticky and loud. He pressed his fists against his eyes until stars bloomed behind the lids.

The phone buzzed again on the console.

Trina. You okay? He stared at the words.

Laughed once, a sound that didn’t sound like him. Okay. Sure. Fine. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat without replying.

The storm outside blurred everything beyond the glass — streetlights smeared into liquid fire, houses crouched like shadows. He could feel something moving inside his chest, sharp-edged, tearing through soft parts.

Regret, rage, grief. He couldn’t name it.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers curled and uncurled on the wheel. Stay gone. Her voice again, cold and final. Like a verdict. Stay gone. Stay dead.

He slammed a fist against the dashboard.

The sound cracked through the cab, ugly and loud, but it didn’t bleed the pressure out.

If anything, it made the cage tighter. Eight years old. His kid. His blood. Upstairs in a house with warm lights and lavender soap, while he sat out here like a ghost rotting in his own skin.

The engine rumbled under him, a low growl vibrating through his bones. He could just drive. Keep driving until the rain ran out and the roads went dry and the whole state vanished in his rearview. O r— he could turn back. March up that driveway. Kick the door wide, drag the truth into the open like a body no one wants to claim. Her voice again, sharp as glass- Don’t you dare.

His grip on the wheel trembled. Breath sawed in and out, shallow and fast. He pressed his forehead to the leather and whispered it again, softer this time, like a prayer- “I’ll do better. I swear it.” The words tasted like blood in his mouth — metallic, bitter, impossible. And still, for the first time in years, he almost believed them.

Outside, the rain kept pounding, washing the world raw. Inside the truck, Nathan sat in the dark, the engine growling under him, the storm raging above, and something heavier than both coiled tight in his chest, waiting.