I never thought I’d hear from my father again. He had walked out of my life twenty years ago, leaving a hole I didn’t think could ever be filled. So when my phone buzzed late one night, I ignored it at first. The number was unfamiliar. Maybe a wrong number. But then a text came through, and my heart nearly stopped:
“ALICE, THIS IS YOUR DAD. PLEASE CALL, I AM IN THE HOSPITAL.”
I froze. Dad? After twenty years? I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the screen. Part of me screamed to delete it, to pretend it wasn’t real. But curiosity, that impossible, irresistible curiosity, won. I dialed the number.
“Hello?” The voice was weak, trembling.
“Dad?”
“Alice… it’s me. I… I don’t have much time.”
“Why are you calling now?” My voice was sharper than I wanted.
“I need to explain… and ask something. Please, don’t tell your mother.”
The old secrecy I remembered from my childhood hit me like a punch. “What do you want?”
He drew in a shaky breath. “I left because your grandfather, Harold, paid me to disappear. He… he hated me. Thought I was a failure. He found someone else for your mom… someone better.”
I couldn’t speak. “Grandpa… he did that?”
“Yes. I was struggling back then. Addictions, bad choices. Your grandfather saw a way to get rid of me—and I took the money.”
My anger boiled over. “So you just left us… for money?”
“I know it sounds terrible. But I invested it, Alice. Built a business. It was all for you, for your future.”
“Then why didn’t you ever come back?”
“Part of the deal. I couldn’t approach you or your mother. But I was there. Watching. I saw your graduation, your volleyball games. I was always there… just… from a distance.”
I felt the floor tilt beneath me. “Why didn’t Mom tell me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she thought it would protect you. Or maybe… she didn’t want you to hate him.”
“What do you want now?” My voice trembled.
“I need to see you, Alice. One last time. Before I go. I’m at St. Mary’s Hospital.”
I didn’t know what to say. Could I face him after everything?
“Please, Alice. It’s my dying wish.”
The line went silent. I sat there, phone in hand, my mind spinning. Should I go? Could I even face him? He was dying. There was no time.
The next morning, I called in sick. I sat in my kitchen, staring at my coffee, heart heavy with memories and fear. Should I tell Mom? But he asked me not to. I called my best friend, Jen.
“Hey, can we talk?” I said.
“Of course. What’s up?”
“It’s… it’s my dad. He called last night.”
“Your dad? The one who left?”
“Yeah… he’s dying. And he wants to see me.”
Jen paused. “Wow… how do you feel about that?”
“Angry… confused. He told me things about Grandpa.”
“Like what?”
“That Grandpa paid him to leave. That he was there at my graduation, my games… watching, but couldn’t come near us.”
“That’s insane. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know… he wants me to visit. But I don’t know if I can.”
Jen was silent a moment. Then, softly: “Maybe you should go. Get answers. Closure.”
“I guess… but I’m scared.”
“Take your time, but don’t wait too long. If he’s dying…”
“I know. Thanks, Jen.”
I drove to the hospital, memories crashing around me: the happy times before he left, the confusion and anger afterward, the quiet absence that had defined my childhood.
I walked into the hospital room. Beeping machines filled the air. And there he was—frail, thinner than I remembered, eyes lighting up weakly when he saw me.
“Alice,” he whispered.
“Hi, Dad.” I stood at the foot of his bed, unsure what to say. Anger and confusion battled with the sight of him so vulnerable.
“You came,” he breathed, relief soft in his voice.
“I had to. I need to understand why.”
“I know… I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching a trembling hand toward me. I took it, feeling the fragile coldness of his skin.
“Why, Dad? Why did you take Grandpa’s money and leave?”
He exhaled a shaky sigh. “I thought it was the best way to secure a future for you and your mother. I was a mess, Alice… addicted, broke. Your grandfather offered me a way out—a chance to give you a better life, even if it meant I couldn’t be part of it.”
“Do you know how much it hurt? How much it hurt me? You missed everything… my graduation, my volleyball games… my entire life.”
“I was there, Alice… watching from afar. It broke my heart not to be with you. But I thought I was doing the right thing.” He paused, struggling to breathe. “I tried to make it right. I invested the money… built something that 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, open it. You’ll find proof… and the letters.”
I held the key, trembling. “Why now, Dad? Why tell me all this now?”
“Because I’m dying. I can’t leave this world without you knowing the truth. I love you, Alice. I’ve always loved you.”
Tears fell down my cheeks. “I needed you, Dad… I needed my father.”
“I know… I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. But when you read those letters… I hope you understand.”
We sat in silence, hands clasped, the machines’ beeps echoing like the ticking of time. His breathing grew labored. He squeezed my hand once more, then he was gone.
The next day, I opened the safety deposit box. Inside were stacks of financial documents and a bundle of letters, each addressed to me, each dated over the years.
I spent hours reading. Every letter was filled with regrets, love, and hopes for my future. He wrote about the business he built, how he watched over me, how proud he was. By the last letter, my anger had softened into aching sadness.
The financial documents confirmed it: he had worked hard, sacrificing everything to secure my future. It wasn’t just money—it was proof of his love, his sacrifices, his complicated choices.
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. “I didn’t stop it because I thought it was best for you too. I wanted you to have a better life than your father could give you at that time.”
“Why didn’t you 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 confession added another piece to the puzzle, helping me understand the tangled web of choices that shaped my life.
In the end, I used the money to start a scholarship fund in my father’s name. It felt right—honoring his memory, his sacrifices, and helping others, just as he had tried to help me.
As I launched the scholarship, I finally felt peace. The past had been painful, confusing, and complicated—but it had brought me here. Now, with the truth out in the open, I could move forward, honoring both my father’s love and my mother’s sacrifices.