I hesitantly walk into the familiar brewery. This was our place. Our escape from the outside world. Our brick-and-mortar fort where father and son would bond over craft beer.

 

It's been five years. 

 

It seemed as though time stood still inside the brewery while life outside of it had changed. The brewery is brimming with like-minded individuals this evening.  

 

Game night. 

 

We used to do that. That’s why I’m here. To try to fill a void that was emptied unceremoniously five years ago. I sit on one of the few unoccupied stools by the bar and hope they still make our favourite ale. 

 

They do. 

 

As I drink my glass of nostalgia, a husky voice behind me asks, “Do you mind if I sit next to you? This place is packed tonight.”

 

“Sure,” I say, somewhat reluctantly. 

 

I order another glass as the man sits down. When my glass returns, he comments, “Good choice,” and then says to the bartender, “I’ll have the same.” 

 

After a few nervous sips, I divulge to the man, “This was our favourite ale. My dad and me. He never drank an ale he didn’t like. He…” I stop. Our last conversation silences me. 

 

The man notices my pause. “I wish I could share another beer with my son, but I screwed up with him. He told me something very personal years ago right here in this brewery and I did not handle it well at the time. I would really like to tell him how sorry I am.”

 

Stunned as I am by his guilt, I turn to the man and say with hopefulness, “I would like that too, Dad. How about we start with a game?”