I thought about that sentence for days.
Your father would have been proud of you.
It wasn't the kind of thing a stranger normally said.
Especially one who had never asked about my family.
I tried to convince myself that Cyrus had simply been making conversation.
Maybe he had heard something from another customer.
Maybe I had mentioned my father without remembering.
Maybe he had confused me with somebody else.
But the more I considered it, the less comfortable I became.
He had known my full name.
He had asked about my family.
And he had said something about my father as though he knew him.
I didn't want to make assumptions.
I also didn't want to ignore something that might finally tell me more about James.
The next year, I waited for Cyrus.
I didn't know whether he would return.
Part of me hoped he wouldn't.
Another part wanted to see him more than ever.
When the diner door opened, I looked up.
There he was.
The same dark jacket.
The same careful walk.
The same quiet expression.
He looked older.
But his eyes were familiar.
He nodded at me.
I nodded back.
He walked straight to Booth 4.
I didn't wait for him to order.
I prepared two coffees.
Then I carried them over.
He looked at the cups.
"Thank you."
I placed them on the table.
"You're welcome."
I stood there for a moment.
I had rehearsed what I wanted to say.
But when I looked at him, the words became difficult.
Finally, I asked.
"Mr. Lambert, can I ask you something?"
He raised his eyes.
"Of course."
"Did you know my father?"
His fingers stopped moving.
The diner continued around us.
A chair scraped against the floor.
Someone called for more napkins.
But Cyrus didn't answer.
He looked at the second coffee.
Then he looked at me.
"What makes you ask that?"
I swallowed.
"You said something last year. You said my father would have been proud of me."
He lowered his head.
"I shouldn't have said that."
"Why?"
He took a slow breath.
"Because I didn't know how to explain it."
I waited.
He looked like he wanted to say more.
But he didn't.
I pulled out the chair opposite him.
"Was he a Marine?"
Cyrus nodded.
"Yes."
My heart began beating faster.
"What was his name?"
He closed his eyes briefly.
"James."
I felt the air leave my chest.
"James Kane?"
He nodded again.
I sat down.
For years, I had imagined what it would feel like to meet somebody who knew my father.
I thought I would have a thousand questions.
I thought I would cry.
Instead, I sat there unable to move.
Cyrus reached toward his own coffee.
He didn't drink.
He simply held the cup between his hands.
"He was a good man," he said.
I looked at him.
"You knew him?"
"Very well."
"How?"
Cyrus took a breath.
"We served together."
I looked at the second cup.
Then back at him.
"Is that why you order two coffees?"
He didn't answer immediately.
His eyes had become wet.
"Yes."
I couldn't speak.
He looked at the empty seat across from him.
"Your father should have been sitting here."
I felt something break inside me.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a small, painful realization that the man I had spent my life missing had been part of this little booth in a way I had never understood.
I wanted to ask everything.
I wanted to know what my father had been like.
What he had said.
What he had done.
Whether he had ever spoken about me.
But Cyrus looked exhausted.
I didn't want to force him.
So I asked one question.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
He looked down.
"Because I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of telling you something I couldn't take back."
I didn't understand.
He seemed to realize that.
"I need to explain it properly."
He stood slowly.
I looked up at him.
"Are you leaving?"
"Not today."
He glanced at the second coffee.
Then at me.
"I'll come back."
I wanted to ask when.
But he was already reaching for his wallet.
I shook my head.
"You don't have to pay."
He gave me a tired smile.
"I've always paid."
He placed the money beside his cup.
Then he walked toward the door.
This time, I watched him leave.
I didn't know what to do with the information he had given me.
My father had not been just a name in an old photograph.
He had been somebody's friend.
Somebody's closest companion.
And Cyrus had known him.
I looked at the second coffee.
It was still untouched.
For the first time, I understood that it wasn't simply an unusual habit.
It was a memory.
A promise.
And perhaps an apology that had taken too many years to arrive.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: When The Envelope Finally Reached My Hands, I Discovered Why One Man Had Spent So Many Years Sitting Across From An Empty Chair
The Old Marine Who Came Back Every Year and Ordered Two Coffees Had Left Something Behind That Changed Everything I Knew About My Father
Part 3 of 10
