Part 2: A Borrowed Family
For the next six weeks, Nathan and I created a small family out of imagination, coffee, and borrowed time.
I brought him coffee from across the street. He saved the most difficult crossword clues for me. I pushed his wheelchair through the hospice garden while he criticized flowers he had never planted.
“That rose bush is leaning.”
“It’s a plant, Nathan. It isn’t required to stand at attention.”
“It has no discipline.”
He complained constantly, but beneath the irritation, I began to notice gentleness.
He remembered which days were hardest for me. He asked about my work. He noticed when I had not slept well, even when I insisted I was fine.
For years, I had been the person who cared for everyone else. During my mother’s illness, I scheduled appointments, managed medications, cooked meals, worked two jobs, and smiled whenever she apologized for needing me.
Nathan was difficult, but he chose me.
I had not realized how badly I needed to be chosen.
The hospice approved two brief outings after Nathan signed the necessary medical forms.
The first was to Millie’s Diner.
The moment we entered, the manager’s face brightened.
“Nate. It’s good to see you.”
Nathan gave a careless shrug when I looked at him.
“I used to work here.”
The way the staff greeted him suggested he had done much more than that.
We sat in a corner booth near the window. A waitress brought him coffee without asking for his order.
Nathan requested two slices of apple pie.
“Are we expecting someone?” I asked.
“No. I simply dislike choosing.”
“Between two identical slices?”
“One could be better.”
The second outing was to the ocean.
Getting him across the sand was exhausting. He refused help until his legs nearly failed him. Finally, he allowed me to support his weight.
At the water’s edge, he removed his shoes and pressed his bare feet into the wet sand.
His eyes closed.
For several minutes, the sharp-tongued man disappeared. He looked peaceful and strangely young.
“Was it worth the trouble?” I asked.
“Ask me when I can no longer stand.”
People often assumed I was his daughter during our outings.
Before I could correct them, Nathan always answered.
“She is.”
Every time he said it, warmth spread through me, quickly followed by guilt.
We were pretending. I knew that.
Yet the affection between us did not feel imaginary.
Sometimes I wondered whether love cared about facts. Perhaps it only cared that two lonely people had found each other when they needed someone most.
Nathan weakened rapidly during the final week.
His sharp voice faded. He slept more often. Some days, he could barely lift his coffee cup.
During my last visit, I sat beside him and held his hand. His fingers felt light and fragile in mine.
He opened his eyes.
“Was I convincing?”
“As a father?”
“As someone worth remembering.”
My throat tightened.
“You were difficult.”
A faint smile appeared.
“That sounds honest.”
“You were demanding, rude, stubborn, and exhausting.”
“Better.”
I leaned closer.
“And I’ll remember you.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
Nathan died the following morning.
At his funeral, I recognized several hospice workers, the manager from the diner, and the silver-haired waitress who had served us without asking Nathan what he wanted.
Eric stood alone near the back.
He watched as I placed a flower on Nathan’s casket.
For a moment, I thought he might approach me.
He did not.
The next afternoon, my phone rang.
“My name is Eric Cole,” the caller said. “I handled Nathan’s estate.”
“I remember you.”
“There’s something you need to know. Something Nathan should have told you himself.”
We arranged to meet at his office.
A small wooden box sat in the center of the conference-room table when I arrived. Eric looked as though he had not slept since the funeral.
He gestured toward the chair across from him.
I remained standing.
“What did Nathan hide from me?”
Eric took a breath.
“Nathan was your biological father.”
The words entered the room but did not reach me.
“No.”
“He was your father.”
“No,” I repeated, louder this time.
Eric opened a file and pushed it across the table.
Inside was a signed acknowledgment of paternity dated before my birth. There were copies of letters addressed to my mother, each marked as returned. Beneath them was a report from an online genealogy service.
Years earlier, while searching for relatives on my mother’s side, I had submitted a DNA sample.
Nathan had found me through that database.
“He confirmed your identity,” Eric said. “Then he learned you were volunteering at the hospice.”
I stared at him.
“He chose that hospice because I worked there?”
“Yes.”
“He arranged our meeting?”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
Eric’s expression tightened.
“Yes.”
“For the entire six weeks?”
“Yes.”
My chair crashed into the wall as I stood.
“You watched me pretend he was a stranger.”
“I did.”
“You watched me call him Dad without knowing he actually was my father.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Nathan believed you would refuse to see him if you knew the truth.”
“That decision belonged to me.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that!”
Eric lowered his gaze.
“He threatened to refuse treatment and remove me from every medical decision if I told you. I convinced myself that he was dying and that giving him a few peaceful weeks would hurt you less than telling you.”
“You decided his comfort mattered more than my right to choose.”
“Yes,” Eric whispered. “And I was wrong.”
