He never texted to ask where I was — he just waited at the gate

He told them he'd be home by five. The coach ran three hours late, so it was eight before he got off at the station, another ride to get back, a fine rain falling the whole way. At the head of the lane there was someone already standing — and he had no idea how long they'd been there.

The streetlight was just bright enough to show the dark patch across his father's shoulders. Not the damp of someone who stepped outside a few minutes ago. His father said nothing about it, and never asked why the bus was late. That wet shoulder was the only thing that gave away how long he'd stood there.

"You're back then." Four words, and then he took the suitcase handle and carried it in ahead of his son. No question about the journey, nothing about how work had been. It was only later that he found out the room had been made up since the day before, the fan already running, dinner left under a mesh cover from the afternoon. His father spoke little because he had already spent all of it on doing things instead.

It was his mother who told him the rest: his father had gone out to the gate at five and come back to look every fifteen minutes. She'd told him to wait inside, out of the rain, and he'd said it was too hot in the house. The umbrella he took with him was still bone dry the next morning, propped in the corner by the gate.

It was raining, and he stood there anyway. Some people love you without a word.

He's come home plenty of times, and every time his father is somewhere near the top of the lane, and every time he assumed it was a coincidence. The last time you went home — was anyone already standing outside before you arrived?