Will You Ever Forgive Me?

“How do I even begin to apologise for something like this?” The words tumbled out in a hoarse whisper.

The pen trembled in Nathan’s hand as he stared at the dining table, cluttered with crumpled drafts. He forced his hand to move, pressing the pen's tip to the paper.

His hand unsteady, he wrote:

You don’t know me, but I know who you are. My name is Nathan Caldwell. I was there the day your daughter died.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, squeezing his eyes shut as memories crashed over him—his thumb on a detonator, then an explosion. The smell of smoke. The shock of realising what had happened.

He shook his head clear of the flashbacks and squinted at the paper. The ink smeared beneath his fingers as he continued, each letter jagged.

I didn’t know her name then. Kelsey. I know it now. I’ve seen her smile in photos you’ve shared with the world—bright, full of life. I need you to know I never meant for it to happen.

It was my decision. My mistake. And I’ve carried that weight with me every moment since.

Will you ever forgive me? I doubt it. But you deserve to know, even if it changes nothing.

He stared at the page and finished the letter.

I’m sorry. More than you could ever know.

—Nathan Caldwell

He scanned the page and swallowed hard. “Will you ever forgive me?” he repeated. “God, that sounds—” He let out a sharp sigh, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor as he stood.

Grabbing his jacket, he folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

This time, he wouldn’t back out.

The suburban street lay still as Nathan stood in front of the house. He drew the letter from his pocket, eyes locked on the door. A tightness gripped his chest.

Kneel. Slip it under the door. Walk back to the subway.

His gaze flicked briefly to the mailbox. It bore the name Whitaker in peeling black letters, a detail he’d already known but now felt unsettlingly real seeing it in person. He swallowed hard, boots thumping as he made his way up.

Just as he reached the door, envelope in hand, it swung open abruptly, and there she stood.

“Oh!” Mrs. Whitaker exclaimed, her hand clutching a set of keys. She looked at him, startled. “Can I help you?”

Nathan froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The letter weighed a thousand pounds in his hand.

“I, uh— I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He glanced toward the street, then back at her. “I was walking by, and my phone died. Could I borrow yours? Just for a quick call?”

Mrs. Whitaker’s brows furrowed, her grip on the keys tightening. “Alright. The home phone is in the kitchen. Come on in.” She stepped back and motioned for him to enter.

“Thank you.”

The air inside smelled faintly of lavender and something warm, maybe cookies or bread. His eyes darted to the walls, and his stomach twisted.

The girl was everywhere.

Photos lined the hall—snapshots of her laughing with friends, holding a basketball, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Mrs. Whitaker’s voice broke the silence. “That’s my daughter,” she said softly. “Kelsey.”

His throat tightened painfully, but he nodded. “She seems very special.”

“She was,” she replied with a faint smile. Nathan felt like he’d been struck in the chest, hearing that. “Kitchen’s just this way,” she said as she led him to the kitchen. “There you go,” she said, guiding him forward. She turned and walked away.

“Thanks,” Nathan muttered, placing the letter down and pulling the phone from its cradle.

The cord tangled as he fumbled with the phone. He dialled a random number, let it ring a few times, and hung up. When he stepped out of the kitchen, she was waiting by the front door, holding it open. “You make your call?”

“Yeah, thanks for letting me borrow it,” he said, forcing a small smile. “I’ll get out of your way now.

Mrs. Whitaker nodded politely. “Alright. Take care.”

Nathan walked toward the door, and the door clicked shut behind him.

The air hit him like a wave, cool and sharp against his heated skin. Just keep walking. His breaths came shallow and quick, his heart pounding in his ears like gunfire. The world blurred around him as he walked down the sidewalk.

Don’t look back. Don’t think. Don’t stop.

At the corner of the block, he slowed, his legs trembling beneath him. He stopped and braced his hand against a streetlamp, the cold metal biting into his palm. His chest heaved, each breath clawing its way out of his throat.

Images flashed before him. The dust. The screams. The weight of the girl’s body in his arms as he pulled her from the rubble.

Stupid. Stupid. What was I thinking?

The world spun around him. I shouldn’t have gone. Should’ve just walked past like I wasn’t even there. Did I really think this would make a difference?

Did she know? Did she see the guilt in my eyes? Fear coiled tighter around him, knotting his insides.

His hand shot to the pocket of his military jacket, fingers splaying against the empty fabric. His stomach twisted.

The letter.

“No!” he shouted, voice cracking with desperation. “No, it’s gone. Where is it? Where is it?” He clawed at his jacket, his breathing shallow. The realisation slammed into him.

I left it. Right there on the kitchen bench.

He spun toward the house, panic surging. Tears pooled from his eyes as he tried to focus.

And then he saw her.

Mrs. Whitaker.

She was coming down the sidewalk, her face streaked with tears, visible even in the night. The letter trembled in her outstretched hand. She stumbled as she approached, her breath hitching with sobs.

“You!” she shouted, her voice raw and cracked.

He froze at the sound of her voice cutting through the whirlwind in his mind like shrapnel. Mrs. Whitaker stood before him, her eyes wide and teary. The letter trembled in her hand.

“What is this?” she asked, thrusting it toward him. “Who are you, and why did you leave this?”

Nathan’s mouth opened, but no sound came. His heart pounded loudly in his ears like gunfire. “I’m Nathan Caldwell,” he said, finally finding his voice. “I… I was there. The day Kelsey died. It was my mission.”

Her eyes flickered with pain. “You were there? You’re the reason she’s gone?”

“I never wanted this. I never meant for it to happen,” he pleaded, voice cracking. “I’ve carried her death with me every day since, just as you have. I thought… I thought you deserved to know.”

“Why come here?” Her hand tightened around the letter, her knuckles pale. “Why now?”

“I needed to tell you. I needed you to know that it wasn’t just a mistake to me. I tried to save her. I did. But it wasn’t enough.”

Her eyes met his, searching, and then filled with a bitterness he couldn’t bear. “And what now? You expect me to forgive you after this somehow? To forget what happened?”

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t expect anything. I don’t even deserve it. I just needed you to know that I’m sorry.”

There was a long silence between them. Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter now. “Then, you’ll have to live with it. And I have to live without her.”

And with that, Mrs. Whitaker took one last look at him, turned, and walked away.

Nathan clenched his jaw.

The weight was a little less crushing. Maybe someday, it would be bearable.