When Kelly turned off the ignition and looked across the grocery store parking lot, she froze. Was that Dad’s green Ford pickup? No, it couldn’t be, but the mere thought that it might be, made her want to get away. What would she do if he saw her?
A man bundled in a green hunting jacket was leaning under the raised hood, about the same height as Dad, but thinner. The sight of him put a bitter taste in her mouth from the pancakes she had eaten on Christmas Eve, ten years ago. She remembered the sweet smell of hot maple syrup and the unexplainable silence before Dad blurted the words that broke her heart: I’m moving in with Susan. He never looked up, but continued to cut his pancakes into neat little squares.
It couldn’t be his truck. Why would he be 350 miles from home on Christmas Eve, at the grocery store near her house? He didn’t even know she lived here. Or that she was married and had two kids.
An SUV rolled by, illuminating Indiana plates and an American flag painted on the back window. This can’t be happening to me. She wiped away the frost on her window. Why was he still driving—or trying to drive—that old beaten-up truck?
Snowflakes splattered the windshield, making it hard to see. She couldn’t sit there forever, or she would have to get out of the car and chip off the ice. He was sure to see her then. She turned the key in the ignition and flipped on the wipers, moving away the snow in wet chunks. If only it were that easy to wipe away the past. Why hadn’t she just skipped the glaze for the ham and stayed home? The kids wouldn’t have noticed. Jake would eat anything.
Dad slammed the hood and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. His hair had grayed almost to the whiteness of the snow. He was definitely Dad, still with his bushy mustache. He played with his phone for a minute, then closed it and slumped against the fender.
Kelly knew what she should do. If it had been a neighbor, she wouldn’t have hesitated to get out and see what she could do to help. Dad was a different matter. She vowed never to forgive him, and she hadn’t.
Last-minute shoppers avoided him. Please, she begged. Someone out there, help him. She rubbed the fingers of her gloves to eliminate the tingling. This was not her problem. Dad was the one who walked away—ten years ago to the day. Others should help him, people whose Christmas hadn’t been ruined by him.
That day when he finally looked up from his pancakes, he had said, “You’re all grown up. You don’t need me,” as if that should be sufficient explanation. She was all of sixteen—hardly grown up at all.
Dad stood, looked around, then sagged against the truck, head in his hands. Why didn’t he go inside and ask for help? Was he so old that he didn’t know what to do? Eventually he would figure it out. Just leave, she told herself. Why couldn’t she forget she ever saw him and go home? He had certainly forgotten about her.
With a groan, she got out of the car and kicked the door shut. Painful needles shot through her toes. She trudged across the snow to his truck and cleared her throat.
Dad looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “Kelly! I didn’t expect… I mean I was… I was coming to…” His voice trailed off as he took a long look at her.
“Baby, you’re all grown up.”
“What do you expect after ten years?” She thrust her cell forward. “Would you like to use my cell phone?”
He kept his hands at his side. “I was bringing dinner to your house. Mom gave me your address. She showed me pictures of your kids—my grandchildren.”
“You never talk to Mom.” She took a step back. “Why aren’t you with your own family on Christmas Eve? Or are you starting over for the third time?”
He pulled his coat tighter and watched the snow collect on the sleeve. “Can we go somewhere warmer where we can talk?”
“Why? What’s left to say? You said it was over ten years ago. It still is.”
“I apologized to your mom.” He stuffed his gloved hands into his coat pockets. “I’d like to apologize to you.”
Kelly stiffened. She felt her face redden, and not from the cold. “I don’t think so.”
“Please.” Moisture shone in his eyes, and his begging tone was pitiful.
Geez, the last time she’d seen him cry was his father’s funeral fifteen years ago. “As soon as I get glaze for the ham, I’m headed home.”
“No need to go in,” he said. “Mom always glazed the ham, so I figured you would too. You can take my grocery sacks, with another ham and plenty of glaze.” He looked so sad, yet his tone indicated he would be satisfied if she would just take his groceries home—like that was enough to feel like he was in touch with the family he used to have.
Kelly kicked a chunk of ice. “Fine, I’ll take the groceries.” She thrust out her phone again. “Here, call your buddy down at the garage. I’ll drop you off at a hotel.”
After phoning the garage and making arrangements, he left the keys under the floor mat and grabbed the grocery bags off the seat.
On the first turn out of the parking lot, Kelly said, “Okay, we can stop at a restaurant so you can apologize. I can’t stay long. I need to get home.” She sighed in silent regret when she realized the only place open this late on Christmas Eve was the IHOP. She had sworn off eating pancakes ten years ago and didn’t look forward to seeing them on anybody’s plate.
A wearied waitress handed them a menu. “The pancake breakfast is on special—”
Of course it is. Kelly put her hand up. “Just coffee, please.”
Dad ordered coffee too and waited for the waitress to fill their cups. “If I could do it all over”—he paused to regain his composure—“I would never have left.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “It wasn’t right, what I did. You were my daughter.” He reached across the table, his palm up. “You still are.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear. Why was this so hard when she’d waited so long for him to be sorry? Did he expect her to let go of ten years of anger in a single moment? Impossible.
He let out a deep breath. “I’ve missed you for ten years, and the pain gets worse every Christmas.”
Kelly had to admit that her own bitterness had been a long-time source of pain. Could she accept his apology when what he did was so wrong? “Okay.” She laid her hand on his. “We’ll talk. That’s all I can give you.”
Dad broke down and cried. “That’s enough—more than enough for today.”