Donald Mallard headed home after another proverbial day at the office. It had been routine as most of the cases had been lately, and he was looking forward to a quiet night at home with some brandy and classical music.
What hit him the hardest was that it would be the first quiet night with brandy and classical music he'd been able to enjoy in nearly ten years. The puppies were adopted within days of their posting and her clothes and belongings had been packed away in storage. All that was left in Ducky's eyes was the occasional photograph of her with him as a child, and the lingering scent of her favorite perfume. The smell of it had aggravated him to no end, he was convinced her sense of smell was nearly gone due to the amount she managed to spray.
He walked in this particular night, and removed his coat and hat. "Mother I'm home…" He stopped himself short as he set his hat on the hook and closed the closet door. "Donald, get yourself together." He said to himself as he made his way to the kitchen, flipping on a few hallways lights in the process.
He opened one cabinet and removed a glass. He then opened another and reached for the bottle of brandy. He took both of them into his living room, placed them on the table and paced over to the record player, to begin its emanating sound.
He began to pour into his glass, when a sudden feeling a loneliness gripped his heart. He had lived a relatively full life in the eyes of most people, but to himself he was unsure if he had truly made his Mother proud. After all, he hadn't had any grandchildren for her to hold, and realized day after day that he wasn't getting any younger. Sure, there were women he had loved in the past, but perhaps he missed his chance. Perhaps he was meant to be a fairly wealthy man, who cared for his Mother till her dying day, and not a man who raised a family.
He always thought he'd be a great Father, and often reminisces of his own Father and how dear he was to him. He sipped his brandy and closed his eyes, trying to get a clear picture of what his Father had looked like. He finished his glass and poured himself another. As he took his first sip, he found his shoulders shaking and tears finding their way down his face. This shot of loneliness had crept up on him and he finally realized how much he missed her.
Each attempt he made to compose himself had failed. He felt like a two year old who was watching his Mother leave to go out for the first time, and feared she would never come back. Only this time, he knew it had become a reality. He had really been left alone. The eeriness of the silence gripped his heart; there were no kids running up and down the stairs, no wife calling him in for dinner and no phone calls from work to catch up on. Life to him was this: brandy and classical music, with the occasional fulfillment of seeing justice served. He longed for more, but somehow knew it may never come.
He reached for the phone and began to dial, but hung it up. Even his dear friend Jethro couldn't help him heal the pain he was feeling that night. He found himself in his Mothers old room, crawling up under the covers and crying himself to sleep, her familiar scent his only comfort against the pangs of loneliness.