The Weight of Sorry by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction

The Weight of Sorry

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 615

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice quiet but steady, the words settling between us like the rain pooling on the sidewalk outside. His hands trembled as they wrapped around a chipped coffee cup, his knuckles raw, the skin scabbed over like a battlefield barely healed.

The apology felt too small for the years it was meant to cover, too fragile to bear the weight of what he'd left behind. I leaned back in the booth, the vinyl sticky against my jacket, and watched him try to meet my eyes. He couldn’t.

“For what?” I asked, keeping my tone calm, though it carried an edge sharp enough to cut.

His shoulders sagged, his body folding into itself. “For leaving. For not being there when you needed me.” His voice cracked, the words spilling out like an old wound finally reopened.

I leaned forward, elbows digging into the table. The smell of stale coffee and fried eggs hung heavy in the air. “You thought we didn’t need you? That we’d be better off without a father?”

“I thought you’d be stronger,” he said, barely audible. “I thought I’d just make it worse if I stayed.”

My laugh was sharp, hollow. “Stronger? You think I’m stronger because I learned how to lie to the neighbors about where my father was? Or because I had to sit with Mom in the hospital, holding her hand, trying to pretend everything was fine while you were—”

The words caught in my throat, the memory rushing back too fast. I turned my gaze to the window, tracing shapes in the condensation with my finger. Outside, the rain was falling softer now, but it still blurred everything.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking. I glanced at him, finally really looking. His jacket hung loose on his frame, his face lined with years that hadn’t been kind. His hands trembled against the cup, the faint shake of someone carrying more than they could hold.

A memory rose uninvited—his hands guiding mine as I struggled to tie my shoes when I was six. “Loop it once more,” he’d said, his voice low and steady. I’d beamed when I finally got it, and he’d laughed, ruffling my hair and kissing my forehead. For a moment, he’d seemed invincible.

The image dissolved, leaving behind an ache I couldn’t name. I swallowed hard, grounding myself in the hum of the diner, the clatter of dishes somewhere behind me.

“You’re late,” I said, my voice quieter now but no less firm. “Too late, maybe.”

“I know,” he said, his hands still shaking as he set the coffee cup down. “But I’m here now.”

The waitress appeared with the coffee pot, refilling his cup without a word. He nodded his thanks, but his eyes stayed on me, searching for something I didn’t know if I could give.

“I don’t forgive you,” I said after a moment. The words didn’t feel as sharp as before, more like the edges of a stone worn smooth by time. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

His nod was slow, deliberate, his expression unreadable. He didn’t try to argue, didn’t try to plead. He just sat there, his hands finally still against the table.

The rain outside had softened to a gentle rhythm, the kind you don’t notice until it stops. I watched the water trail down the window in uneven lines, blurring the view but not obscuring it completely.

We sat there in silence, not knowing what to say but not ready to leave either. For the first time in years, the anger in my chest didn’t feel so suffocating.

Sometimes, healing doesn’t begin with forgiveness. Sometimes, it begins with staying.