Losing a parent is one of the hardest loses a person can ever experience, and when my mother passed away some two years ago, my entire world turned upside down. I just couldn’t get used to the fact she was no longer around, and I definitely couldn’t stay in the house for long because all I could do was think about her. So, in order to be out of the house, I started volunteering at a nearby hospice. When people asked me why I’d do that, I said I simply wanted to be there for those nearing their life, but the reason was more selfish than that. I hated my house without my mother there.
Also, the hospice was the place where grief was allowed, so I accepted the position in a heartbeat.
There, nobody was asking me if I was ready to move on, so I somehow felt at ease.
At the hospice, I met this patient, Nathan Cole. The moment he registered at the place, I could see he was a bit different. Unlike the rest of the people there, his visitor log was empty. It was as though he had no one to look after him or check how he had been. And yes, he was a bit grumpy and hated the flower arrangements, so his room was somehow dull all the time.
Once, I brought him a cup of coffee from the diner, and he complained about me not asking him how he liked his coffee. Apparently, he wanted cream, and that’s how we started talking more. Nathan was 59 and chronically ill. Needless to say, he was irritated by almost anything and anyone.
Week after week, he started asking for me specifically right before my shift ended. Little by little, he shared bits about his hardworking past and told me how he used to drive delivery trucks cross-country and how he was running a diner down the road. But whenever I tried to ask about his family, especially if he had kids, he’d shut the conversation down right away.
Then one day, a well-dressed guy showed up with a briefcase full of paperwork. Nathan’s mood went sour instantly, and he treated this guy, Eric, like he was just another piece of office equipment. A few days later, Nathan called me over, grabbed my hand with his weak grip, and hit me with a crazy request: he wanted me to pretend to be his daughter until he died. He mumbled something about losing a daughter and that hit way too close to home. My mom raised me by herself and never once told me who my father was, leaving a scar that’s never really healed. Against my better judgment, I forced a smile and said, “Hello, Dad.”
For six weeks thereafter, we acted out a kind of parody of a family. I would bring him fresh coffee, argue with him over our differences in crosswords, and push his screeching wheelchair around the courtyard garden as he grumbled about the landscaping. Even the hospice allowed two short trips for him. The first was to a restaurant called Millie’s Diner where he was welcomed like an institution and the waitress placed before him two slices of apple pie without a word. The other one was to the beach, where I helped him wade through the wet sand so that he could stand barefooted by the sea with his eyes closed. It was all an illusion, but after years of taking care of my mother and feeling wanted by her, I somehow enjoyed that illusion of being chosen.
At the end, Nathan declined quite quickly. During my last visit, he could hardly open his eyes. He asked if I thought that he had been convincing, not just as a father, but as a person worth remembering after his death. I held his hand and told him that he had been utterly difficult, but promised not to forget about him. He passed away the next morning.
Eric pulled the rug out from under me the very next day when he called me down to his downtown office. Sitting in the middle of a massive wooden conference table was a small box of personal belongings and some documents.
“You walked right into Nathan’s trap,” he said.
My whole body went ice cold. “What are you talking about?”
He didn’t answer my question, just slid that box a bit closer to me.
“Nathan didn’t run into you by coincidence. He picked that specific hospice because he knew you volunteered there.”
My fingers started shaking, but even before I could get a word out, Eric kept going.
“He spent two decades looking for you. The second he tracked you down, he made me swear not to let it slip until he was gone.” I stared down at the box, unable to touch it.
Eric pulled out the chair right next to mine. “You need to sit down,” he said. “Because Nathan wasn’t pretending to be your father.”
And then he laid it out for me bluntly: Nathan was my biological father. Years ago, he’d run a DNA profile through a database I’d used, tracked down where I volunteered, and orchestrated our meeting on purpose because he was terrified I’d walk away if I knew the truth from the start. To top it all off, Eric was Nathan’s stepson and had known the whole time.
In his will, Nathan left his failing diner to Eric and me, splitting it right down the middle. I guess he figured forcing us into business together would somehow bind us to each other after he was gone.
At first, we both just wanted to wash our hands of the whole thing. The plan was to sell the place, pay off the debts, and never have to see each other again. But when we actually went down to Millie’s and realized that selling meant putting a crew of people who had worked there for years out of a job, we just couldn’t pull the trigger.
Standing right there in the kitchen, Eric finally took ownership of the whole mess. He apologized for his part in the lie and took all the blame for keeping me in the dark. That single moment of accountability shifted everything, and the heavy tension between us finally lifted.
For the next few months, Eric and I basically lived there, bickering over spreadsheets and trying to trim the budget to keep the doors open.
Working side by side, we started seeing the weight each of us had been carrying like the endless double shifts I pulled while juggling the house and keeping my mother company, and the way Eric had drained his own savings just to pay for Nathan’s medical care.
We didn’t turn into some picture-perfect family overnight, and neither of us forgave Nathan for treating our lives like a game of blocks he could just stack up and knock down. But we built a grounded, working partnership. We even teamed up with the hospice, setting up a deal to bring in breakfast for grieving families once a month.
By the time my birthday rolled around, Eric and I found ourselves sitting in Nathan’s old booth at the diner, sharing two slices of apple pie.
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Bored Daddy
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