I was getting ready for bed when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. The number was unknown, so I ignored it at first. But almost immediately, a text came through:
“ALICE, THIS IS YOUR DAD. PLEASE CALL, I AM IN THE HOSPITAL.”
My heart froze. Dad? After twenty years? I sank onto the edge of my bed, staring at the message, my hands trembling. Part of me screamed to delete it, to pretend it never happened—but curiosity gnawed at me. I dialed the number.
“Hello?” A weak, shaky voice answered.
“Dad?” I whispered, barely believing it.
“Alice… it’s me. I… I don’t have much time,” he said, his words fragile, like they might shatter at any moment.
“Why are you calling now?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, a mix of anger and disbelief.
“I need to explain… and ask something of you. But please… don’t tell your mother.”
The same secrecy that had haunted my childhood pressed down on me. “What do you want?”
He drew a shaky breath. “I left because your grandfather—Harold—paid me to disappear. He hated me. Thought I was a failure. He… he found someone else for your mom. Someone better.”
I couldn’t speak. “Grandpa… he… did that?”
“Yes,” Dad said quietly. “I was struggling. Addictions… bad decisions. Your grandfather saw a way to get rid of me, and I… I took the money.”
“So you just… left us for money?” Rage boiled in my chest.
“I know it sounds awful. But I invested that money. Built a business. It was all for you, Alice… to secure your future.”
“Why didn’t you ever come back?”
“Part of the deal. I couldn’t approach you or your mom. But I was there… watching. I saw your graduation. Your volleyball games. I was always there… just from a distance.”
My world tilted. “Why didn’t Mom ever tell me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want you to hate him. Or maybe she thought she was protecting you.”
“What do you want now?” My voice wavered.
“I need to see you… one last time. I’m at St. Mary’s Hospital.”
I froze. Could I face him? After twenty years of absence, lies, and pain?
“Please, Alice… it’s my dying wish,” he whispered.
The line went silent. I sat there, gripping my phone, my mind racing. Should I go? Could I forgive him, or even understand? But he was dying. There was no time.
The next morning, I called in sick to work, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee I didn’t taste. Should I tell Mom? But he had asked me not to. I needed advice. I called my best friend, Jen.
“Hey… can we talk?” I said, my voice shaky.
“Of course. What’s going on?”
“It’s… my dad. He called last night.”
“Your dad? The one who left?”
“Yeah. He’s dying… and he wants to see me.”
“Wow… how do you feel?”
“Angry. Confused. He told me things… about Grandpa.”
“Like what?”
“That my grandfather paid him to leave. That he was there, watching, all these years… at my graduation, my games. But he couldn’t approach us.”
Jen was quiet for a moment. “Maybe you should go. Get some answers. Closure.”
“I don’t know if I can face him,” I admitted.
“Take your time, but don’t wait too long. If he’s dying…”
“I know. Thanks, Jen.”
Her words stayed with me. Maybe I did need closure. Maybe I needed to see him, hear it from him, and finally understand.
I drove to the hospital, memories crashing over me—moments of joy before he left, the confusion and pain after, the empty space he left behind. I walked into the hospital room, heart pounding.
The machines beeped steadily, almost cruelly, in the stark white room. And there he was—my dad. Frail, smaller than I remembered, eyes lighting up when he saw me, a weak smile trembling on his lips.
“Alice,” he whispered.
“Hi, Dad.” My voice caught in my throat. Anger, confusion, longing—all tangled together.
“You came,” he said, relief in his eyes.
“I had to. I need to understand,” I admitted.
“I know… and I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He reached a trembling hand toward me. I took it. Cold. Fragile. Human.
“Why did you do it, Dad? Why leave us for money?”
He exhaled a long, shaky breath. “I thought it was the best way… to secure your future. I was a mess, Alice. Broken. Addicted. Your grandfather… he offered a way out. I thought… I thought I could give you a better life, even if it meant I couldn’t be part of it.”
“Do you know how much that hurt? How much it hurt me?” Tears pricked my eyes. “You missed everything… my graduation, my volleyball games… my life.”
“I was there, Alice… watching from afar. It broke my heart not to be with you. I thought I was doing the right thing.” His chest heaved. “I tried… I tried to make it right. I invested the money, built something that I hoped… would help you.”
“Why didn’t you come back when you were better?”
“I couldn’t. Part of the deal. But… I wrote to you. Letters… every year. They’re in a safety deposit box. Here.” He handed me a small key. “After I’m gone… you’ll find proof. Proof of everything. And the letters.”
I held the key, trembling. “Why now, Dad? Why tell me this now?”
“Because I’m dying… and I can’t leave this world without you knowing the truth. I love you, Alice. I’ve always loved you.”
Tears streamed down my face. “I needed you, Dad. I needed my father.”
“I know… and I’m sorry. But I hope… when you read those letters… you’ll understand.”
We sat in silence, holding hands, the machines’ steady beeping marking time we could never get back. His breathing grew more labored. He squeezed my hand one last time. And then… he was gone.
I left the hospital with my heart pounding—a mix of relief, anger, grief, and strange, bittersweet closure. The next day, I used the key to open the safety deposit box. Inside were stacks of financial documents and a bundle of letters, each addressed to me and dated through the years.
I spent hours reading the letters. Every page overflowed with regret, love, and pride. He wrote about the business he built, how he watched over me, how proud he was of my life. By the last letter, my anger had softened into a deep, aching sadness.
The financial documents confirmed what he said. He had worked tirelessly, using the money he took to secure my future. But it wasn’t about the money—it was about understanding his choices, his sacrifices, and, above all, his love.
I knew I had to talk to my mom. When I confronted her, she looked at me with sad eyes.
“I knew about the offer,” she admitted softly. “I didn’t stop it… because I thought it was best for you too. I thought you deserved a better life than what your father could give at that time.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I wanted to protect you… to let you remember him without bitterness. Maybe I was wrong, but I did what I thought was best.”
Her words completed the picture, helping me understand the tangled web of decisions that shaped my life.
In the end, I used the money to start a scholarship fund in my father’s name. It felt right—an honor to his efforts and a way to help others, just as he had tried to help me.
As I launched the scholarship, I felt a deep sense of peace. The past was messy, painful, and complicated—but it brought me here. And now, with the truth finally out in the open, I could move forward, honoring both my father’s love and my mother’s sacrifices.