“I dislike making decisions.”
The second outing was to the ocean.
People sometimes assumed I was his daughter.
I helped him across the sand. He removed his shoes, pressed his feet down, and closed his eyes.
“Worth it?” I asked.
“Ask me when I can’t stand.”
People sometimes assumed I was his daughter.
Nathan always answered before I could.
Still, after years of caring for my mother and being needed by everyone, I liked being chosen.
“She is.”
Every time he said it, warmth moved through me, followed by guilt.
I knew we were pretending.
Still, after years of caring for my mother and being needed by everyone, I liked being chosen.
Nathan weakened quickly.
“Was I convincing?”
During my final visit, he could barely keep his eyes open.
“Was I convincing?” he asked.
“As a father?”
“As someone worth remembering.”
I held his hand.
At his funeral, I recognized hospice workers, the diner manager, and a silver-haired waitress.
“You were difficult.”
“That sounds honest.”
“And I will remember you.”
He died the following morning.
At his funeral, I recognized hospice workers, the diner manager, and a silver-haired waitress.
He watched me place a flower on Nathan’s casket.
Eric stood alone near the back.
He watched me place a flower on Nathan’s casket.
He did not approach me.
The following afternoon, Eric called.
“My name is Eric Cole. I handled Nathan’s estate. I need to tell you something he should have told you himself.”
A wooden box sat on the table.
We met in a conference room at his office.
A wooden box sat on the table.
Eric looked exhausted.
“Nathan was your biological father.”
