His expression changed as if I had physically hurt him.
“No.”
“Everybody leaves.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
Frank reached under the table and offered me his little finger.
“I promise.”
And he kept that promise.
Years later, Frank was the man who walked me down the aisle.
When my daughter was christened, he stood beside me with one hand carefully supporting her head, as though I might somehow drop her despite being 32 years old.
Whenever I asked about his life before he met my mother, his answer was always the same.
“The important part started when you came along, sweetheart.”
I had always understood those words as love.
I had never considered that they might also be hiding something.
Frank’s health began to decline not long after his 78th birthday.
First, he became unusually tired.
Then he began losing weight.
After that came medical tests, specialists, and those cautiously worded explanations doctors give when they already know how the story will end.
During his final week, I slept in a vinyl chair beside his hospital bed.
Any change in his breathing woke me.
I learned every sound made by the machines surrounding him.
On his final night, the doctor asked me to step into the hallway.
“It may only be a few hours, Rosalie.”
I nodded because I knew that if I tried to speak, I would fall apart.
When I returned to the room, Frank seemed to be sleeping.
I lowered myself into the chair and slipped my hand beneath his.
Without warning, his fingers tightened around my wrist.
Hard.
“Promise you’ll hear me out before you hate me,” he suddenly said.
I froze.
“I could never hate you.”
His hand was cold against mine.
“I’ve lied to you your entire life.”
I tried to smile. “Dad, you’re exhausted. Let me get the nurse.”
“My mind is clear.” He tightened his grip. “Everything you believe about your childhood, about who I am… is incomplete.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What are you talking about?”
“I need you to discover the truth before I die, even though I was begged to take it to my grave.”
Questions rushed through my head faster than I could process them.
Was my biological father still alive?
Had Frank kept letters from me?
Had there been another family?
Was there an entire part of his life I had never known existed?
With trembling fingers, Frank reached beneath the blanket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He pushed it into my hand.
