Coffee and Tragedy

Is there something wrong with me, or is it wrong with you?

Denny was late getting home from school. I knew something was amiss when I turned the key in the lock, late again myself, and didn't hear the blast of music from his bedroom. My ears rang in the silence. I looked up at the clock, hanging on the wall alongside a portrait of my late wife Anna, Denny's mother. I sank into a seat at the kitchen table and spilled a pile of case studies out of my briefcase. Verbatims demanded to be written up from another long day of school psychology. Before I started, I texted him,

Just got home. Let me know when you'll be here.

I set my phone aside, took a sip of my gas station coffee, a vestigial habit from grad school, and signed my name to a patient chart. When Anna was alive, a fresh cup always awaited me at home – never more than one. I'd grown accustomed to thin, bitter brews since then, dispensed by others less skilled in the art of coffee.

Dinner should have been simmering in the crockpot, but I had too many crisis reports and insurance files to wade through. Denny usually took care of that when he arrived. I never thought to ask him to make me a coffee. Now there was nothing but the hum of the refrigerator to keep me company.

The stillness swallowed me as I worked; next time I glanced at the clock, an hour had passed. No word from Denny. Where was he? Sunset pushed shadows across the lawn in that ominous way of late autumn. He never stayed out after dark.

My phone rang. I jolted upright and grabbed it. An unknown local number.

“Is this Doctor James Mason?” A brisk female voice asked.

“Yes.”

“We regret to inform you, your son Dennis Mason has been detained in connection with breaking and entering at a local jewelry store. He asked to call you. May I connect him?”

Surely I was mishearing it. I assented, and his voice came on, a dull monotone.

“Hey.”

“Are you ok? What happened?”

“I'm fine.”

“What did you do?”

“Some of the guys threw rocks in the windows of Matt's Diamonds.”

“How were you involved?”

“I just came along for the ride.”

“But… Why?”

Silence.

“Just come over and get it straightened out, ok? I didn't do anything.”

“I – I'll see what I can do.”

I got back in my car and drove to the police station, head spinning. Why was this happening? How did my son get involved with looters? Who were they? My hands tightened on the steering wheel, a rush of frustration overwhelming me. How could quiet, studious Denny have done something so stupid? I had so much to do. No time to haul him home from the police station. This could take hours, and I hadn't even had dinner.

My convenience store coffee sat in the cupholder, stale and cold. I should have thrown it out at home. Instead I took the paperboard cup in with me. Inside, the station smelled like musty case files, weariness and unsolved mysteries.

“Hey man,” Officer O'Brien greeted me. “Sorry this happened.”

We knew each other. He handled delinquent minors; I would sometimes be called in for a mental health evaluation. Oh, the irony. I was about to be forced to psychoanalyze my own son. I jangled my keys.

“Why is he here?”

“You mean what did he do, or what's wrong with him?”

“Either way.”

O'Brien shook his head with a furrowed brow.

“He was caught running away from the jewelry store with a bag of stolen merch, alongside three others. We'll need to gather witness statements and analyze security camera footage to see what role he actually played at the scene.”

“Any idea why?”

He shrugged.

“I can't say, James. You're the expert on child behavior. I just catch them. He won't say a word to us.” He waved me towards a back room. “Go in there and be a dad, ok? This isn't one of your cases. It's your kid.”

His words stung me. As if I hadn't been a good father to Denny ever since he was born! I bit back a retort and entered the holding room. It wasn't exactly a prison cell, more like military style, with a cot, a table, and two metal folding chairs.

Denny was slouched in one chair. He looked up at me with a sort of grim challenge. I pulled out the other chair, setting down the to-go coffee cup I had no intention of drinking from anymore.

“Alright, son. What's going on? Who are you getting involved with?”

“Why does everyone want to know that? The cops already have the other guys.”

“I want to know why. What on earth possessed you to do something like that? You know it's illegal and wrong and stupid. Did you really think you'd just break into a store, grab and go and get away with it like a brainless thug? What were you after? Money? You know I would have given you any additional allowance or an advancement. Was there something you needed to buy? You could have gotten an after-school job!”

He sat listening to my diatribe, a slight smirk on his face. When I was done, he shook his head.

“Money wasn't the issue.”

“Well what the hell was it, then?” My irritability poked through like porcupine quills. “You're being a troublemaker. I'm a busy man – I can't waste time dragging you out of juvenile detention. I can't believe this is happening!”

Denny folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. What was wrong with him? It was like I didn't even know him. I stood up abruptly, intending to pace. My foot caught the leg of the lightweight folding table, jolting it enough to send my half-empty coffee cup tumbling to the floor.

“Now look what you made me do,” I growled.

Denny sat without comment, watching me grab some paper towels from the washroom sink and mop up the spill. As I worked, I tried to analyze my agitation. What was it about this situation that triggered me so much? I never yelled at him before. I suppose it's because my worst nightmare was coming true: that my son, the well-behaved honors student, had somehow become one of the troubled kids I worked with at the school.

A little calmer, I resumed my seat. I leaned forward, laid my hands on the table and looked him in the eye, as if this were one of my patients.

“I'm sorry, I raised my voice there. Denny, please tell me, what's on your mind right now?”

He shifted slightly, looking me over, eyes narrow as if I were some kind of threatening presence.

“Are you in shrink mode?”

I let out a sigh that deflated my posture, feeling suddenly rather old and defeated.

“Dennis, I'm your father. I'm responsible for you until you turn eighteen. If you're honest with me, I can get you out of here faster.”

His eyes focused on the table between us, then he looked up at me.

“I think you've forgotten how to turn on Dad mode since Mom died.”

His quiet observation shook me. We had avoided speaking about Anna after the funeral. I grieved a wife, Denny a mother, both in silence. It was as if we didn't know how to relate to each other without her caring presence. My work became my refuge, a burden I brought home with me every night and used to build a wall around my cracked heart.

I realized then what Denny had done. He threw rocks, not at the jeweler's window, but over the top of my wall. If he couldn't reach me as a father, he'd reach me as a shrink. His unexpected delinquency was a cry for help. In my grieving process, I'd nearly lost my son.

I took in a deep, shuddering breath. My hands reached across the table for his.

“I miss your mom so much. It hurts more than I ever wanted to show you.”

“Yes,” he whispered. He laid a hand over mine. “I don't know how to go on without her. I thought you could help. You never said anything. I thought maybe you didn't feel it like I did.”

“I thought you were ok. I didn't know. I'm sorry.”

We sat in silence, a new understanding between us. Afterwards, I signed the paperwork and had him released into my custody until his first hearing. A single streak of orange underlined the evening sky as I drove him home. We watched the endless line of gleaming cats-eyes flying under us on the road, tracing the path ahead like runway lights.

Home was cold and empty when we arrived. I switched on all the lights and swept my half-finished patient reports and verbatims off the kitchen table. Denny stuffed a couple of frozen dinners into the oven. I sat and watched as he dusted off the long-unused Keurig machine. He rummaged in a cabinet and pulled out a box of Green Mountain. Flashing me a hesitant grin, he popped one into the coffeemaker.

“Been a while since you had a nice home brew, Dad.”

I smiled for the first time in many months as the warm scent of coffee filled the air. I think Anna's portrait smiled as well.

Notes ▼

Words: 1552.
Written for the November 2025 Official WdC Contest, Quotation Inspiration.
Prompt: “everyone wants to change the world, but no one wants to change himself.” Leo Tolstoy

Also written for "The Lodestar Contest" 
Prompt: it's been abandoned, and we need it.

Soundtracks:
Coffee (Imagine Dragons demo) ▼

Can't Stop (OneRepublic) ▼