The Last Bus Home: A Story of Grief and Forgiveness in the Heartland

“You’re late again, Veronika. You know the hospital closes at six.” My mother’s voice, sharp and tired, cut through the static of the old cordless phone pressed against my cheek. I could barely hear her over the engine’s drone as the last bus rattled out of the city, fields stretching into the night on either side. I clutched the manila envelope tighter in my lap, the edges digging into my fingers, as if that pain could distract me from the heavier ache in my chest.

All day, I’d run from building to building—first the hospital for Dad’s papers, then the funeral home to sign forms I barely registered, and back again to drop off the bundle of clothes Mom had wrapped up so carefully. Black pants, a crisp shirt, the tie he wore to my high school graduation. I hadn’t set foot in my childhood home in almost three years, and now I was coming back not for a holiday or a celebration, but to bury my father.

The bus hissed to a stop on Main Street, the only street in Ashford with more than two stoplights. I stepped off into the cold, the sky already ink-black, and made my way past shuttered storefronts to the house where I’d grown up. The porch light was on, but I paused at the bottom of the steps, my heart pounding. I thought about turning around. About running. But I pictured Mom’s face—drawn, red-rimmed eyes, lips pressed tight—and I climbed the stairs instead.

Inside, the smell of soup simmering on the stove mingled with the sharper scent of cleaning supplies. My mother stood at the sink, scrubbing a mug so hard I worried it would shatter.

“Did you get everything?” she asked, not looking up.

I nodded, setting the envelope on the counter. “Hospital forms, death certificate, the… the rest.”

She finally met my gaze. “You remembered the clothes?”

“Yeah. He’ll look nice.” My voice wavered. I was thirty-three, but the weakness in it made me feel like a kid again.

Mom hesitated, then said, “You should call your brother. He needs to know what time the service is.”

I stiffened. “He could’ve called me, too.”

Her jaw tightened, and I saw the familiar battle lines draw themselves across her face. “This isn’t about you or him. This is about your father. Can you try—just for one day—not to fight?”

But old wounds don’t heal just because someone dies. My brother, Daniel, and I hadn’t spoken since the Thanksgiving when Dad had too much whiskey and accused me of throwing my life away by moving to Chicago after college. Daniel had agreed with him. I’d left in tears, and the silence had stretched out ever since. Now, I was supposed to forgive and forget because Dad was gone.

Later, after the soup went cold, Daniel arrived. He stood in the doorway, taller than I remembered, his suit hanging loose on his frame.

“Hey, Vee,” he said, voice low.

“Hey.” I looked away, focusing on the mug in my hands. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Mom cleared her throat.

“I’m going to bed,” she said. “You two… talk.”

The kitchen felt too small, too bright. Daniel sat across from me, fidgeting with his tie.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

“Of course I came.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “He’s our dad.”

He looked at me, eyes red. “I know things got bad. I wish… I don’t know. I wish we’d had more time.”

I swallowed. “He never called, Dan. Not once.”

“He was stubborn. You know that.”

“So was I.” I looked down, the tears falling before I could stop them. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Daniel reached across the table. His hand closed around mine, hesitant. “Neither did I.”

We sat there, grief and regret hanging between us. There were no words big enough for what we’d lost.

The funeral was simple. Old neighbors, friends from church, a few distant relatives. I watched as they filed past Dad’s closed casket, whispering condolences and memories. My mother wept quietly, clutching a handkerchief. Daniel and I stood on either side of her, a fragile truce holding us together.

After the service, people gathered in the church basement for coffee and casserole. Mrs. Henderson from next door pressed my hand and said, “Your father was always so proud of you, Veronica. He talked about you all the time.”

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

But inside, I wanted to scream. Proud of me? The last words he’d ever said to me were shouted across a table, full of anger and disappointment. I would never get the chance to change that. Never get an apology. Never say the words I’d rehearsed a thousand times in my head.

Back home, after everyone had left, I found Mom sitting on Dad’s side of the bed, clutching his old flannel shirt. I sat beside her, unsure what to say.

“He loved you, you know,” she whispered. “He just… didn’t know how to show it.”

I nodded, biting my lip. “Neither did I.”

We sat in silence, the house too quiet. I realized then that forgiveness wasn’t something you did for the dead. It was something you did for the living—the ones who had to carry on.

That night, Daniel and I walked the fields behind the house, the stars sharp above us. We talked about childhood, about growing up, about the things we wished we’d said. About Dad’s anger, and his love, and the way family can hurt you more than anyone else—but also how they’re the only ones who can help you heal.

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive him,” I said softly.

Daniel looked at me, his breath hanging white in the air. “Maybe we start by forgiving ourselves.”

Now, weeks later, back in my apartment in Chicago, I still think about that. About the last bus home, about funerals and family and the things left unsaid. About whether forgiveness is possible—or necessary—when someone’s gone. Or if it’s just something we do to try to make sense of all the pain.

If you’ve lost someone and never got the chance to make things right, how do you move on? How do you forgive when goodbye never comes?