I held his hand.
“You were difficult.”
“That sounds honest.”
“And I will remember you.”
He died the next morning.
At his funeral, I recognized hospice staff, the diner manager, and a silver-haired waitress.
He watched me place a flower on Nathan’s casket.
Eric stood quietly near the back.
He watched me place a flower on Nathan’s casket.
He never came over to speak with 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 drained.
“Nathan was your biological father.”
For several long seconds, the words meant nothing.
Inside was a signed acknowledgment of paternity from before my birth.
Then my chest tightened.
“No.”
Eric slid a file across the table.
Inside was a signed acknowledgment of paternity from before my birth, copies of letters my mother had returned unopened, and a recent genealogy match.
Nathan had found me through the database.
Years earlier, I had submitted my DNA while searching for relatives on my mother’s side.
Nathan had found me through the database.
“He confirmed your identity and learned where you volunteered,” Eric said. “He chose that hospice because of you.”
My stomach turned.
“He arranged everything.”
“Yes.”
I shot to my feet so fast my chair slammed into the wall.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“For all six weeks?”
“Yes.”
I shot to my feet so fast my chair slammed into the wall.
“Nathan believed you would refuse to see him if you knew.”
“You let me pretend he was a stranger.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
For illustrative purposes only
“Nathan believed you would refuse to see him if you knew.”
“That was my choice.”
“He threatened to refuse treatment and remove me from every medical decision if I told you.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
Eric lowered his gaze.
“He threatened to refuse treatment and remove me from every medical decision if I told you. I told myself he was dying. I told myself six weeks of comfort would hurt less than the truth.”
I wanted him to defend himself.
“You decided his comfort mattered more than my consent.”
“Yes.”
His voice broke.
“I was wrong.”
I wanted him to defend himself.
Inside were two bundles of letters.
It would have been easier to hate him if he had.
Eric opened the box.
Inside were two bundles of letters.
One was addressed to me.
The other was addressed to him.
“Who are you to Nathan?”
Beneath them were documents naming us joint owners of Millie’s Diner.
I looked at him.
“Who are you to Nathan?”
Eric’s jaw tightened.
“His son.”
