For eight years, my neighbor drove my father, who was blind, to all his "doctor's appointments" – After my father's funeral, he told me, "He made me promise to tell you where we were really going."

She had Ben's eyes and the same fiery personality as him.

"Isn't that why you asked me to come with you?"

He kept his eyes fixed on the road.

***

After driving for a while longer, we finally turned into a welcoming driveway.

After knocking, Claire opened the door for us, her hands covered with gardening gloves.

She had Ben's eyes and the same fiery personality as him.

"I spent years protecting my pride."

Her face hardened before she spoke.

"You should have called."

Ben took a step back.

I slipped in beside her and whispered, "Tell her why she meant something to you."

Ben looked at Claire.

He handed her the letter and a box of cinnamon buns.

"I spent years protecting my pride," he said. "I expected you to come back, because admitting I had hurt you would have meant I was wrong."

He swallowed.

"I was wrong. And above all, I made you feel insignificant."

She blinked.

He handed her the letter and a box of cinnamon buns.

Finally, she opened the box, smelled the brioches and looked at me.

"They might be inedible," he said. "That guy's father didn't even finish one. But what did he know?"

Claire didn't hug him. She didn't forgive him. In fact, it was clear she still wanted to chase him off her doorstep.

Finally, she opened the box, smelled the brioches and looked at me.

"Your father, huh?" she asked.

I nodded.

We sat and talked for almost two hours.

Claire opened the porch door.

"That doesn't surprise me. That old fool would never apologize for himself."

We sat and talked for almost two hours.

Ben told him about his Thursdays.

He told her about the library, the bakery, the car rides past his old school, and the afternoons spent recording apologies in Dad's kitchen.

Claire listened to me, then she took out a small wooden box.

I told them about the daily phone calls, Dad's lame jokes, and the empty chair waiting for me at home.

Talking about him released something inside me.

I felt the sorrow subside, transforming into a memory filled with love.

Claire listened to me, then she took out a small wooden box.

Inside, there were unsigned postcards sent over the past few months.

Each one contained one or two sentences.

Pride comes at a price. I think he's starting to get fed up with it.

One of them read: " Your father remembers more than he can talk about. "

Ben covered his face with both hands, trembling.

Another card read: " He still makes his cinnamon buns so badly. "

A third woman said: " Pride has a price. I think he's starting to get fed up with it. "

Claire said she suspected it was Ben who was sending them by pretending to be someone else.

Ben murmured, "It wasn't me."

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