Last Chance

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Armand hadn’t seen the old man in more than two years. Why had he chosen tonight, of all nights, to show up? Armand scowled as he watched him hobble up to the gate. He supposed he should help as arthritic hands fumbled with the latch, but he was in no mood to be generous. Not to him. And not tonight.

He sighed, moving from the window to the door. He could at least open it for him. After all, his father still technically owned this house. He hadn’t lived here since the moment, thirty years ago, almost to the minute, when the police had taken him away. Right after he had murdered Armand’s mother.

Armand had been out, having just turned legal drinking age. His mother had encouraged it, even given him money to stand his friends a few drinks. He had arrived home, worse for wear, to the flash of police car lights in front of his house, and an ambulance gurney bearing a body in a bag. His mother’s body.

He opened the door and stood aside, waiting as his father painfully made his way past and into the kitchen. The old man sat without asking permission, leaning heavily against the table, as if for added support. Armand warily sat opposite.

“Why?”

“Why what?” the old man answered. “Why am I here? Why did I honor your mother’s wishes?”

“You murdered her!” Armand spat, anger and betrayal still fresh after all these years. “You took her from me.”

A much older version of his own face crumpled in sorrow. “You never cared what she wanted,” his father said. “She was dying. Slowly and painfully. There was no medical assistance in dying back then. She didn’t want her life to end in agony. She tried to talk to you.”

“And when I wouldn’t hear it, she sent me out to get drunk. I wasn’t there. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” Guilt crushed Armand. He had spent thirty years blaming his father, knowing, in his heart, that the person he really hated was himself. He shoved the guilt back beneath the surface, still unable to face it. “Why are you here?”

“Because, son, I’m dying. I wanted to give you the chance to say goodbye to me before it’s too late.”

Armand’s chest constricted; he couldn’t draw breath. The truth crashed into him like a freight train. His mother would have died in a few weeks anyway. The courts had found a way to not convict his father because he had not actually given her the lethal dose of morphine. She had taken it herself. And yet, Roland had never come home because Armand had blamed him anyway. He had lost both parents with his inability to accept the truth. To accept his own guilt over not being able to support his mother at the end.

He choked out the words, “How long?”

“The doctors say six months, maybe a year.”

“Are you going to…”

“Maybe closer to the end. It’s cancer. I’m still getting chemo to try to at least slow it down.”

“Dad…”

“I know son. It’s okay. You don’t have to be there. Marg and your sisters will be with me.”

The sisters Armand had refused to acknowledge. “I’d like to meet them, if I could.”

Roland smiled. “They’d like that. So would I.”

Armand tapped his fingers nervously on the table, staring out the window until the tightness in his throat loosened enough to speak. “And I want to be there, Dad. I’ve been angry too long. I know—I’ve always known—that it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.” For the first time since that night, thirty years ago, Armand broke down, sobbing out years of guilt and self-hatred as his father held his hand, comforting him at last.

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This story grew from a first line prompt, though I changed he to the name Armand. This is another one that decided its own course as I wrote it. Comments, as always, are welcome and appreciated. Please share, as well, if you liked it.