PART 1: THE FATHER I NEVER KNEW
Two years after my mother’s death, I started volunteering in a small palliative care facility outside the city.
I told people I wanted to help others. The truth was simpler: I couldn’t stand going back to an empty house. In the hospice, I was allowed to live my grief without anyone asking me when I thought to recover.
That’s where I met Nathan Cole.
He was fifty-nine, seriously ill and was irritated with almost everything. He complained about the watery coffee, the daytime TV and the nurses who called him brave. While other patients received flowers, photographs and family visits with homemade food, Nathan only had a leather bag and no emergency contact.
During my second shift, I brought him coffee from the cafeteria in front of him.
“You remembered the cream,” he said.
“You complained for twenty minutes.”
He almost smiled. “Complaining doesn’t guarantee anyone will listen.”
“That happens when you’re impossible to ignore.”
After that, he started asking me to talk to him. I visited him before he finished each shift and, little by little, Nathan told me things about his life. He had washed dishes, driven delivery trucks and had finally been a restaurant manager. However, every time I asked him about his children, he changed his subject.
One afternoon, a man in a dark suit was shown carrying documents.
Nathan’s expression hardened.
“This is Eric,” he said. He takes care of my paperwork.
Eric barely spoke to me. Nathan signed the documents and fired him as if he were an employee rather than a family member.
A few days later, Nathan took me by the hand.
“I have one last request.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Do as if you were my daughter until I leave.”
I stared at it.
She explained that she had lost her daughter before she was born and had never met her.
My mother raised me alone. He never revealed my father’s identity. All he said was that he had chosen fear above us.
Nathan’s request should have troubled me.
Instead, he touched the oldest wound he was wearing inside.
“Well, then,” I said, forcing a smile, “hello, Dad.
Nathan laughed until he started coughing.
For six weeks, we created a provisional family. I was drinking coffee, helping him with the crossword puzzles, and pushing his wheelchair through the garden while he criticized each flower.
The palliative care center authorized two outings.
The first time was Millie’s restaurant. Everyone seemed to know him there. A waitress brought him the coffee without his request, and Nathan asked for two servings of apple pie.
The second trip went to the ocean. I helped him cross the sand and he stood barefoot near the water, his eyes closed.
People used to assume that I was their real daughter.
“She is,” Nathan said before I could correct him.
Each time, I felt a warmth that ran through my body, followed by guilt.
I knew we were pretending, but after years of taking care of my mother and feeling always necessary, I liked being the one.
Nathan quickly weakened.
During my last visit, I could barely stay awake.
“Was I convincing?” he asked.
“As a father?”
“As someone worthy of being remembered.”
I took his hand.
“You were difficult.”
“That sounds sincere.”
“But I will remember you.”
He passed away the next morning.
At his funeral, I saw hospice workers, restaurant people and Eric standing just near the bottom. He watched me as he placed a flower over Nathan’s coffin, but he didn’t come close.
The next day, Eric called.
“I need to tell you something that Nathan should have told you himself.”
The rest you will find on the next page.
