I was getting ready for bed when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. The number was completely unfamiliar, so I just let it go to voicemail. Not even a minute later, a text came through that made my heart absolutely stop: “ALICE, THIS IS YOUR DAD. PLEASE CALL, I AM IN THE HOSPITAL.” Dad? After twenty years of silence? I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the message with a mix of pure anger and a sudden surge of deep curiosity. Part of me wanted to delete it quickly and just forget, but curiosity won the internal battle. I called the unknown number back immediately. The voice that answered was weak, barely audible, as he confessed, “I… I don’t have much time now.” My voice was harsher than I had intended when I asked him why he was calling me now, after all the time that had passed. He took a shaky breath, asking me not to tell my mother about this call.
He finally explained the unthinkable: “I left because your grandfather, Harold, actually paid me to disappear.” He hated him, believing Dad was a failure. Harold had seen a chance to get rid of him and had found someone else he thought was better for my mom. I simply couldn’t believe the things I was hearing my dad say about my own Grandpa. Dad admitted he was struggling badly back then with addictions and many bad decisions, and he took the money Harold offered. My anger quickly bubbled up as I asked him if he truly left us only for the money. He said he knew it sounded awful but insisted he invested that money and built a whole business, claiming it was all only for me, Alice, to fully secure my future. The secrecy that had defined my childhood immediately returned, demanding the truth.
I then pressed him again: “Why didn’t you ever come back to us?” He answered that it was a part of the deal he had made, saying he couldn’t ever approach me or my mom. But he swore he was always there, watching from a distance. He said he saw my high school graduation and all my volleyball games. I felt like my entire world was violently tilting. I asked him why my Mom never told me anything about this huge secret. He didn’t know, suggesting maybe she didn’t want me to completely hate Harold or perhaps she thought she was merely protecting me. “What do you want from me now?” I asked, my voice beginning to tremble. His voice was soft, “I need to see you, Alice. One last time before I go forever. I’m at St. Mary’s Hospital.” The line suddenly went silent. I sat there on my bed, the phone still clutched in my hand, my thoughts tumbling over the massive secret. He was dying, and I needed to decide.
The next morning, I called in sick to work and sat in my kitchen, staring deeply at my coffee. I was torn over telling Mom the devastating news, but he had specifically asked me not to. I called my best friend, Jen, who listened intently to the shocking details: my Dad was dying, wanted to see me, and my Grandfather had actually paid him to leave our family. “That’s insane,” Jen remarked, asking what I planned to do about it. I confessed I wasn’t sure I was ready to face him after everything he had done. Jen was silently thoughtful for a moment before gently advising me: “Maybe you should go now. Get some answers. Get the closure you need.” She reminded me not to take too long if he really was dying. Jen was right about closure. I couldn’t keep living with these massive unanswered questions, and I knew if he truly was passing away, I had to see him at the hospital.
I drove to the hospital, memories of my confusing childhood flashing through my mind: the good times before he left, and the intense confusion and pain afterwards. I walked into the stark hospital room, feeling the heavy weight of the years and all the unanswered questions pressing down on me heavily. The beeping machines filled the room with a constant unsettling rhythm. My Dad lay in the bed, looking more frail than I had ever imagined, and his eyes immediately lit up when he saw me. “Alice,” he whispered. I stood at the foot of the bed, unable to voice the anger that still swirled inside me. “I had to come. I needed to understand why,” I told him. He reached out a trembling hand, and I took it, feeling the cold, fragile skin of my estranged father. He sighed deeply, a rattling sound, and explained he thought it was the best way to secure a future for me and my mother.
“I was a mess, Alice. Addicted, broke,” he whispered. He said my Grandfather offered him a way out, a chance to give me a much better life, even if it meant he couldn’t be a part of it. I cried as I told him how much that hurt us, how he missed my graduation, my games, my entire life. He insisted he was there, watching from afar, and it broke his heart not to be with me. He revealed he had tried to make it right, investing the money and building something to help me. He handed me a small key, explaining he wrote me letters every year, and they were in a safety deposit box. “Here,” he whispered, “After I’m gone, open it. You’ll find proof of everything, and the letters.” He squeezed my hand one last time, saying he couldn’t leave the world without me knowing the truth. We sat in silence, holding hands, until his breathing became labored, and he was simply gone. I left the hospital feeling a strange mix of relief, sadness, and closure. I opened the box to find stacks of documents and a bundle of his letters, reading for hours until my deep anger softened into a profound sadness. I used the money to start a scholarship fund in his name.
