Tom Mercer stood at his kitchen counter, staring at the coffee maker as it hissed and sputtered through its final brewing cycle. The sound had become as familiar as his own breathing—a mechanical companion in the too-quiet mornings that marked his fifty-second year of life and his fourth year alone.

He reached for his mug, the oversized blue one with “World’s Best Dad” printed on the side in fading letters. His daughter Rachel had given it to him when she was twelve. She was twenty-six now, living in Boston with her fiancé, calling every Sunday like clockwork but never quite finding time to visit. His son Jake was in Seattle, building a career in tech, equally dutiful with his weekly check-ins and equally absent.

The coffee filled his mug with a familiar warmth. He didn’t bother with cream or sugar anymore—hadn’t since Beth died. She’d been the one who made it sweet, who’d insisted that life was too short for bitter coffee. Now everything tasted the same anyway.

Tom carried his mug to the kitchen table and sat in his usual spot, not the one at the head where he used to sit, but the chair along the side.

Tom glanced at the chair across from him—Beth’s chair—still positioned exactly as she’d left it four years ago. Sometimes he caught himself setting out two mugs in the morning, muscle memory overriding reality for just a moment before he remembered.

The house around him sat quiet. He’d kept everything immaculate, a habit born from having too much time and too little purpose. The living room furniture remained precisely arranged, magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table even though he rarely read them. Beth’s decorative pillows still adorned the couch in their careful arrangement, though he had no idea what that arrangement was supposed to be—he just knew better than to disturb them.

He sipped his coffee and stared out the window at the neighbor’s oak tree, its branches bare against the gray Indiana November sky. Saturday stretched ahead of him with the same shapeless quality as every other Saturday: grocery shopping, maybe some yard work if the weather held, an evening in front of the television watching whatever filled the silence.

His phone buzzed on the table. Rachel’s name appeared on the screen with a text: Hi Dad! Just checking in. How are you doing?

He typed back with his thumbs, still not quite comfortable with texting after all these years: Fine. How are you?

The three dots appeared immediately, showing she was typing. Good! Busy with wedding planning. I’ll call tomorrow, okay?

Sounds good, he replied, then set the phone down. The wedding was in six months. Rachel had asked him twice if he was bringing anyone, her voice carefully neutral, and twice he’d said no. The idea of dating still felt like a betrayal, even after four years.

Tom finished his coffee and rinsed the mug in the sink, drying it thoroughly before placing it back in the cabinet. The routine soothed him—small, manageable tasks that had clear beginnings and endings, unlike grief, which seemed to have neither.

He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and his keys from the small ceramic dish Beth had made in a pottery class years ago. Grocery shopping on Saturday morning had become his ritual. The store was less crowded before noon, and he’d learned to navigate it efficiently: produce first, then dairy, canned goods, frozen items last.

The drive to the grocery store took twelve minutes, a route so familiar he barely registered the turns anymore. He parked in his usual spot—third row, near the cart return—and grabbed a cart, its wheel squeaking in that particular way that announced his presence down every aisle.

Tom moved through the produce section with practiced efficiency, selecting apples without really seeing them, bagging carrots and celery he’d eat dutifully throughout the week. His cart had the same items every time: chicken breasts, ground beef, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, the same brand of pasta sauce Beth used to buy even though he’d never learned to make it taste the way she did.

He turned into the cereal aisle and nearly collided with his cart when he stopped short. A young woman stood directly in his path, clearly waiting for him. She had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore jeans and a university sweatshirt. Her face was familiar in a way that tugged at his memory, but he couldn’t quite place her.

“Mr. Mercer?” she said, her voice uncertain. “Tom Mercer?”

He blinked, his hand still gripping the cart handle. “Yes?”

“I’m Emma. Emma Patterson—Sarah Patterson’s daughter?” She searched his face for recognition. “Your wife and my mom were best friends?”

The memory clicked into place. Emma. The last time he’d seen her she’d been maybe fourteen, all braces and awkward teenage angles, trailing behind her parents at some summer barbecue in his backyard. Beth and Sarah had been inseparable back then, talking for hours over wine while the kids played and the husbands grilled.

“Emma,” he said, surprise evident in his voice. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve—” He stopped himself before saying something awkward about how much she’d grown.

“I’m eighteen now,” she said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She looked tired, he noticed. The kind of bone-deep tired that he recognized from his own mirror. “I know it’s been a while.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Tom was acutely aware of other shoppers maneuvering around them, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the soft music playing through the store’s speakers.

“How’s your family?” he asked, the automatic politeness filling the gap. Then he saw something flicker across her face—pain, quickly suppressed—and he remembered.

The accident. Six months ago. He’d heard about it through the neighborhood grapevine—someone had mentioned it at the hardware store, or maybe it was at the bank. Sarah’s husband, David, killed in a car accident. A truck had run a red light, they said. Instantaneous.

Tom had meant to reach out. He’d picked up the phone a dozen times, started composing a card twice. But what could he possibly say? He knew better than anyone how useless condolences were, how the words “I’m sorry for your loss” meant nothing when you were drowning. And there was the guilt, too—the knowledge that he’d pulled away from Sarah after Beth died, had let that friendship dissolve along with so many others because it hurt too much to be around people who remembered his wife.

He hadn’t gone to the funeral.

“I heard about your dad,” Tom said quietly, his hand tightening on the cart handle. “I’m sorry. I should have—I meant to call, or...”

Emma shook her head quickly. “It’s okay. I know you and Mom kind of lost touch after Mrs. Mercer died.” She shifted her weight from one foot to another, hugging her arms around herself despite the store’s warmth.

“Actually,” Emma said, her voice dropping lower, “that’s kind of why I ... when I saw you, I thought maybe...” She trailed off, glancing at the other shoppers passing by. “Would you have time to talk sometime? Not here, obviously. Maybe coffee or something?”

Tom felt a familiar urge to decline, to make some polite excuse about being busy. It was the same instinct that had helped him avoid most social interactions for the past four years. But something in Emma’s expression stopped him—a desperation carefully masked, a need she was trying hard not to show.

“Sure,” he heard himself say. “Coffee would be fine.”

Relief washed visibly across her face. “Really? Thank you. I know it’s weird, me just approaching you like this. I wasn’t following you or anything,” she added quickly. “I just shop here sometimes, and I recognized you and thought maybe...” She pulled out her phone. “Could I get your number? Or I could give you mine?”

They exchanged numbers, Tom’s fingers clumsy on his phone’s screen while Emma waited patiently. When he looked up, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes more clearly, the way her sweatshirt hung a bit loose on her frame.

“How about Monday?” Emma suggested. “There’s a coffee shop on Maple Street, near the library? Around ten?”

Tom nodded, then glanced around the aisle, suddenly aware of how this might look—a middle-aged man and a teenage girl exchanging phone numbers in the cereal aisle. Mrs. Henderson from down the street was two aisles over; he could see her gray hair bobbing near the bread. The last thing he needed was neighborhood gossip.

“That works,” he said, keeping his voice neutral and stepping back slightly to put more distance between them. “Monday at ten.”

Emma seemed to sense his discomfort. “I really appreciate this, Mr. Mercer. I just—I need to talk to someone who understands.” She took a step back as well, making it clear this was just a normal conversation. “I’ll let you get back to your shopping.”

“See you Monday,” Tom said, and watched as she gave him a small wave before heading toward the checkout lanes.

He stood there for a moment, staring at his phone where her contact information now sat, then slipped it back into his pocket. The encounter had left him unsettled, his carefully routine Saturday suddenly feeling less predictable.

Tom resumed his shopping, but his focus had scattered. He found himself picking up items without really seeing them, retracing his steps when he realized he’d forgotten the bread, standing in front of the meat counter longer than necessary while his mind wandered to Emma’s tired eyes and the weight of whatever she was carrying.

At the checkout, he loaded his groceries onto the belt with mechanical precision, nodding politely to the cashier’s cheerful greeting without really hearing her words. The total came to $47.83, almost exactly what he spent every week.

The drive home felt longer than usual. He kept thinking about Sarah, about how she must be doing. If Emma looked that exhausted, what state was her mother in? He remembered the first six months after Beth died—the blur of it, the anger that came in waves, the days when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain.

He should have called. He should have gone to the funeral.

Tom pulled into his driveway and sat for a moment before getting out, the engine ticking as it cooled. Finally, he grabbed the grocery bags from the trunk and headed inside, the familiar creak of his front door announcing his return to the empty house.

In the kitchen, he set the bags on the counter and began unpacking methodically—refrigerated items first, then pantry goods, frozen items last. He’d developed a system for everything, small ways to impose order on a life that had felt chaotic for so long.

As he placed the milk in the refrigerator, he paused, his hand on the door. Without warning, a memory surfaced: Beth and Sarah sitting at this very kitchen table on a Sunday afternoon, coffee cups between them, laughing so hard that tears streamed down their faces. He couldn’t remember what had been so funny—something about a disastrous book club meeting, maybe, or one of their kids’ school projects gone wrong. But he could see them clearly, Beth’s hand pressed to her chest as she tried to catch her breath, Sarah wiping her eyes with a napkin.

The kitchen had been full of life then. Sarah had been a fixture in their home, dropping by unannounced with wine or dessert, calling Beth at all hours to share some piece of gossip or ask advice. They’d known each other since college, had been in each other’s weddings, had raised their children in parallel—playdates and carpools and joint family vacations to the lake.

Tom remembered David too, Emma’s father. A quiet guy, an accountant or something in finance. They’d gotten along well enough, had stood together at countless backyard barbecues while their wives commandeered the patio table, had helped each other with home repairs and borrowed tools back and forth. Not close friends exactly, but friendly. Comfortable.

After Beth died, Sarah had tried. She’d called, brought casseroles, offered to help with anything he needed. But Tom had been drowning then, barely able to keep himself afloat, and her presence had only made Beth’s absence more acute. Every time Sarah walked through his door, he’d expected to see Beth right behind her. Eventually, he’d stopped answering the phone. Stopped responding to the invitations. Let the friendship drift away because it was easier than explaining that he couldn’t bear it.

Tom closed the refrigerator and moved to the kitchen table, sinking into his usual chair. The one where he’d sat that Sunday afternoon, half-listening to the women’s conversation while he read the newspaper, taking their laughter for granted. Assuming there would always be more Sunday afternoons, more coffee and conversation, more of Beth’s presence filling this kitchen with warmth.

He pressed his palms flat against the table’s surface, the wood smooth and cool beneath his hands. Sarah had sat right there, in the chair kitty-corner to Beth’s. She’d had a loud, infectious laugh that Beth always said could pull her out of any bad mood. The two of them had been planning something that day—a weekend trip, maybe, or a surprise party for someone. Always planning, always looking forward.

And when Beth got sick, Sarah had been there through all of it. Driving Beth to treatments when Tom had to work, sitting with her during the long infusion appointments, bringing meals when cooking became impossible. She’d held Beth’s hand and let her cry and never once flinched from the hard parts. She’d been family.

Tom stared at the empty chairs and felt the weight of his own selfishness settle over him like a heavy coat.

When David died six months ago, Sarah had needed him. She’d needed someone who understood what she was facing, someone who could sit with her in that particular darkness and not be afraid of it. She’d been there for Beth, for him, through the worst period of his life.

And he’d done nothing.

He hadn’t gone to the funeral. Hadn’t sent flowers. Had barely managed a sympathy card that he’d agonized over for days before finally scrawling something generic and inadequate. He’d told himself he couldn’t face it, that it would bring back too much pain, that Sarah would be surrounded by family and friends and wouldn’t notice his absence.

But she had noticed. Of course she had. Emma’s words echoed in his mind: “I know you and Mom kind of lost touch after Mrs. Mercer died.” Such a gentle way of saying he’d abandoned them. He’d taken Sarah’s friendship, her support, her years of love for Beth, and when it was his turn to show up, he’d hidden in his grief like it was some kind of excuse.