PART 1: THE FATHER I NEVER KNEW

Two years after my mother died, I began volunteering at a small hospice outside town.

I told people I wanted to help others. The truth was simpler: I could not stand returning to an empty house. At the hospice, grief was allowed to exist without anyone asking when I planned to recover.

That was where I met Nathan Cole.

He was fifty-nine, seriously ill, and irritated by almost everything. He complained about weak coffee, daytime television, and nurses who called him brave. While other patients had flowers, photographs, and relatives visiting with homemade food, Nathan had one leather bag and no emergency contact.

During my second shift, I brought him coffee from the café across the street.

“You remembered the cream,” he said.

“You complained about it for twenty minutes.”

He almost smiled. “Complaining doesn’t guarantee anyone listens.”

“It does when you’re impossible to ignore.”

After that, he began requesting me. I visited before every shift ended, and little by little, Nathan shared pieces of his life. He had washed dishes, driven delivery trucks, and eventually managed a diner. Whenever I asked about children, however, he changed the subject.

One evening, a man in a dark suit appeared carrying documents.

Nathan’s expression hardened.

“This is Eric,” he said. “He handles my paperwork.”

Eric barely acknowledged me. Nathan signed the documents and dismissed him as if he were an employee rather than family.

A few days later, Nathan reached for my hand.

“I have one final request.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Pretend you’re my daughter until I’m gone.”

I stared at him.

He explained that he had lost his daughter before she was born and had never known her.

My mother had raised me alone. She never revealed my father’s identity. All she ever said was that he had chosen fear over us.

Nathan’s request should have disturbed me.

Instead, it touched the oldest wound inside me.

“Well then,” I said, forcing a smile, “hello, Dad.”

Nathan laughed until he began coughing.

For six weeks, we created a temporary family. I brought coffee, helped with crossword puzzles, and pushed his wheelchair through the garden while he criticized every flower.

The hospice approved two outings.

The first was to Millie’s Diner. Everyone there seemed to know him. A waitress brought his coffee without asking, and Nathan ordered two slices of apple pie.

The second trip was to the ocean. I helped him across the sand, and he stood barefoot near the water, his eyes closed.

People often assumed I was his real daughter.

“She is,” Nathan would say before I could correct them.

Every time, warmth moved through me, followed by guilt.

I knew we were pretending, but after years of caring for my mother and always being needed, I liked being chosen.

Nathan became weaker quickly.

During my final visit, he could barely stay awake.

“Was I convincing?” he asked.

“As a father?”

“As someone worth remembering.”

I held his hand.

“You were difficult.”

“That sounds honest.”

“But I’ll remember you.”

He died the following morning.

At his funeral, I saw hospice workers, people from the diner, and Eric standing alone near the back. He watched me place a flower on Nathan’s casket but did not approach.

The next day, Eric called.

“I need to tell you something Nathan should have told you himself.”

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