Continued from May 27, 2018
#AmWriting #Fiction #IndieAuthor
Marcus went into the funeral, hearing the speeches, consoling the people who were upset, all the while feeling the simultaneous guilt of fighting with his son and the loss of a friend.
He felt drained walking back to his car. His knees were beginning to get stiff and the moisture in the air was playing hell on the arthritis in his hands.
He sat in his car and waited for a few minutes, hoping that Dylan would show up and they could talk some more. He opened the glove box to get a tissue and a small slip of paper fell into the seat.
He turned it over and saw that it was the drawing Dylan had done for his mother nearly ten years ago. He folded it up and slid it into his jacket pocket before taking out his cell phone.
Marcus dialed Dylan’s number and prayed he would answer. The phone simply rang and went to voicemail. He tried a few more times before leaving a message.
“Dylan, it’s your father. You probably know that already. I wanted to say I’m sorry, you don’t have to leave the house. I was just upset and overreacted. Call me back, buddy. I love you.” Marcus finished, hanging up the phone.
He started the car and drove toward the house, hoping that Dylan hadn’t yet left.