As I stood across the street from the cafe, slowly summoning up the courage to cross, and introduce myself, I stared at the piled display of oranges in the window. It was strange, how even though we’d never met, he’d managed to choose a place, where my favourite food sat so prominently, as the backdrop to our first face to face encounter.

I’d been stood there long enough, for him to assume I wouldn’t turn up. I watched him place his order, and push the food around his plate as if the disappointment, had stolen his appetite. The sadness in his wrinkle framed eyes, whenever he looked at the empty chair in front of him, had me choking on guilt.

We’d only been in contact for two weeks, before he suggested seeing each other in person. At first the thought had me uneasy, but the more I fantasised, the more I realised, this might be my only chance to say my piece after all these years, to ask for his reasons, and throw them back as excuses.

Standing there, staring at his elderly frame, with elbows off the table, knife and fork in hand, curiosity clouded all my better judgement, and I took my first step towards the table.

Crossing the road, my legs carried me with surprising ease. I hung my bag neatly on the back of the chair, cleared my throat, and sat down. Facing my father, for the first time.