A Thousand Goodbyes

“Have we met before?”

My father’s words hung in the air—familiar and cold all at once.

From the woods beyond the fence came a low, rolling coyote howl so faint that I wondered if I’d imagined it.

I drew in a sharp breath as sunlight filtered through lace curtains, tracing golden patterns across the threadbare runner beneath our feet. Every detail—the chipped banister, the dent in the doorframe, the soft, comforting aroma of cinnamon and lavender that lingered around him—clenched my chest. I longed for him to recognize me.

“Dad,” I said, my voice catching.

He knitted his brow, eyes flicking to my face as if scanning a memory he’d lost.

“Honey, Daniel’s here!” he called.

I swallowed, fighting the tightness in my chest.

“Come on in,” he offered, stepping forward and brushing my sleeve with gentle fingers.

I nodded. He pivoted unsteadily on his cane, legs trembling as he shuffled toward the living room. His favorite armchair sat by the bay window—the cushion worn, armrests polished smooth by decades of use.

I knelt beside him, studying each line of his face—each wrinkle a memory, a laugh, a sorrow we’d shared.

“Your mother used to sit right there,” he said softly. “She loved that chair. She’d watch the birds at that feeder outside.”

I glanced out the window, following his gaze to the hummingbird hovering by the feeder, wings a blur.

“She was so kind,” he added.

“She is,” I murmured.

“Ah, there she is.” Dad blurted as Mom appeared.

Mom, her back bent with time, offered me a steaming cup of black tea.

“How have you been feeling?” I asked her.

She turned, eyes warm. “I’m fine, Daniel—always fine.”

Dad took my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. For a moment, I forget why I’d come—forgot the long nights debating whether to leave my career behind to care for them.

“It’s good to see you,” he murmured. “It’s been so long.”

I swallowed. “A month.”

He looked down. “It feels longer.”

“I had meetings. Work stuff.” I forced a smile.

He nodded, accepting this without question. That should have comforted me—his mind still able to fit our lives into neat boxes. But somewhere in the back of my mind, dread pooled.

Mom moved to the kitchen. “I made your favorite—apple cinnamon pie.” Steam curled, carrying the sweet-spicy aroma I’d loved since childhood.

She scooped two generous slices and handed one to Dad—and then to me.

“Perfect,” Dad said, taking a cautious bite. His face softened, and for a moment he looked like the man I remembered—the father who taught me to ride my first bike, who chanted classic rock lyrics as we washed the car on hot summer Sundays. “This tastes like the one your mom used to make.”

“This is the one she made, Dad.”

We ate in silence, the ticking of the old clock on the wall a steady metronome marking out our time together. Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the maple trees in the yard, and I thought of all the times we’d thrown baseballs back and forth under their shade.

As I savored the last bite, guilt churned in my stomach, growing heavier with every muted chime of the old clock. Memories of missed calls and unanswered messages swirled through my mind, making the room feel smaller, tighter.

I pushed back from the table and spotted a stack of unopened bills on the coffee table—doctor’s letters, pharmacy bills, and mortgage notices. My chest tightened. “You’re drowning in paperwork, Mom, and Dad can’t even help!” I snapped, sweeping the envelopes toward her.

She stiffened, fingers clutching the teacup. “I’ve been doing this alone for months, Daniel—where have you been?” Her voice cracked.

I closed my eyes. All I wanted was this peaceful morning, but guilt flared hot in my throat. “I’ve been working—trying to make this all possible.”

She stood, chair scraping. “Making what possible? You show up once a month!”

We fell silent.

I swallowed hard, my voice trembling in the sudden hush. “I’m sorry.”

She exhaled sharply, turned away, gathering the bills without looking back. My heart ached with regret.

I slipped onto the back porch for fresh air and stopped dead. Across the dew-damp lawn, just inside the wooden fence, a coyote lounged in dandelions, cocking its head as if reading me.

My breath caught.

The tilt of its skull—so familiar—mirrored the way Dad would frown, blinking twice before admitting he’d forgotten someone.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The coyote’s ears twitched, its eyes narrowing into slits of moonlight. Then, as silently as it had come, it slipped away into the shadows, leaving me alone with the question.

After a while, Mom joined me, offering a sad smile. “Let’s... watch your videos,” she suggested.

I nodded. I needed to do better—be kinder.

We sank onto the couch with Dad and watched old home videos I’d loaded on my laptop. We laughed at the sound of my high-pitched voice in kindergarten recitals. He chuckled, elbowing me gently when I mimicked his awkward dance moves from his wedding day. For a few golden hours, everything felt right—like a time warp back to a simpler era.

Then I opened a folder of family photos: my wife, Laura, and our two boys. Dad’s brow furrowed. “They’re... lovely.”

“They are,” I said, tapping his hand. “They’re waiting to see their grandpa.”

Mom’s glance met mine—her eyes glistening.

“I’d like that.” Dad studied me solemnly.

I closed the laptop and drew him closer. I snapped a photo of the three of us—a new memory. He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That’s nice,” Dad said.

He sank into his armchair. I draped a blanket over his knees and sat beside him. The clock’s ticking slowed to a heartbeat.

I reached into my bag and produced an envelope thick with yellowing papers—his old letters from Mom, poetry he’d tucked between the pages of his favorite books.

“Mom and I found these in the attic,” I said, handing him the bundle. “I thought we might read them together.”

He unfolded the top letter, his fingers trembling slightly. “Your mother wrote this?” he asked. “Her handwriting... I remember it.”

Mom nodded. “Each poem was a way to hold on to you without making you feel trapped.”

He read a few lines, eyes tracing the cursive words: declarations of love, hopes for the future. After a while, his eyelids drooped. He leaned his head back, the letter fell to his lap.

He turned to Mom. “Nurse, I’m ready for bed.”

A chill squeezed my heart. He’d mistaken her for his caregiver again. I forced out, “Dad?” and reached to touch his shoulder.

Mom clutched her mouth, stifling a sob.

His eyes snapped open. He scanned the room—first Mom, then me—his gaze clouded. He leaned forward, brow furrowed.

“Have we met before?”

I gathered Dad’s trembling hand and led him to the door. For a moment, we stood on the porch together—and there, on the mossy stone sundial, sat the coyote, its eyes reflecting the porch light as though it had been waiting for us.

It tilted its head; I squeezed Dad’s hand.

“Yes,” I whispered, “we’ve met before.”