PART 1: THE FATHER I NEVER KNEW
Two years after my mother’s death, I began working as a volunteer at a small palliative care center on the outskirts of the city.
Breedingof the children
I told people I wanted to help others. The truth was simpler: I couldn’t bear to go back to an empty house. At the hospice, I was allowed to grieve without anyone asking me when I expected to recover.
It was there that I met Nathan Cole.
He was fifty-nine years old, gravely ill, and irritated by almost everything. He complained about weak coffee , daytime television, and nurses who called him brave. While other patients received flowers, photographs, and visits from relatives with home-cooked meals , Nathan had only a leather satchel and no emergency contacts.
During my second shift, I brought him coffee from the coffee shop across the street.
—You remembered the cream—he said.
“You complained for twenty minutes.”
She almost smiled. “Complaining doesn’t guarantee anyone will listen.”
“That happens when you’re impossible to ignore.”
After that, he started asking me to talk to him. I would visit him before each shift ended, and little by little, Nathan began telling me things about his life. He had washed dishes, driven delivery trucks, and eventually, he had been a restaurant manager. However, every time I asked him about his children, he changed the subject.
One afternoon, a man appeared wearing a dark suit and carrying documents.
Nathan’s expression hardened.
“This is Eric,” she said. “He takes care of my paperwork.”
Eric barely spoke to me. Nathan signed the documents and fired him as if he were an employee instead of a family member .
A few days later, Nathan took my hand.
“I have one last request.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Pretend you’re my daughter until I leave.”
I stared at him.
She explained that she had lost her daughter before she was born and that she had never met her.
My mother raised me alone. She never revealed my father’s identity. All she said was that he had chosen fear over us.
Nathan’s request should have worried me.
Instead, it touched the oldest wound she carried inside.
“Well then,” I said, forcing a smile, “hi, Dad.”
Nathan laughed until he started coughing.
For six weeks, we created a temporary family. I brought him coffee, helped him with his crossword puzzles, and pushed his wheelchair around the garden while he criticized every flower.
The palliative care center authorized two outings.
The first time, he went to Millie’s restaurant. Everyone there seemed to know him. A waitress brought him his coffee without him even asking, and Nathan ordered two slices of apple pie.
The second trip was to the ocean. I helped him cross the sand and he stood barefoot near the water, with his eyes closed.
People used to assume that I was his real daughter.
“She is,” Nathan said before I could correct him.
Each time, I felt a warmth spreading through my body, followed by guilt.
I knew we were pretending, but after years of taking care of my mother and always feeling needed, I liked being the chosen one.
Nathan weakened rapidly.
During my last visit, he could barely stay awake.
“Was I convincing?” he asked.
“As a father?”
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