I’m nineteen, and up until recently, I was content with my life. Steady, yet not flawless or effortless. I thought I knew what had happened to me.
I thought I understood my origins.
The narrative never changed. At the hospital, my mother gave birth to me, put me in my father’s arms, and left. Not a tear. Not a letter. No justification. She didn’t go back.
I was raised with that reality.
Miles, my father, never twisted it or added resentment to it. “She chose a different life,” he would explain when I was younger and inquired about her. “That choice wasn’t about you,” he emphasized when I grew older and demanded more.
She was never described as heartless by him. She was never described as selfish. I never felt like I was half of something broken because of him.
After that, he brought me up. on his own.
Even when I only had two lines and forgot one, he never missed a school performance. I once complained, so he learned to prepare more than just pasta. During my panic attacks, he sat on the bathroom floor and looked up internet ways to help without making things worse. He used YouTube to teach himself how to braid his hair, and when it didn’t look good, he let me try again.
“It’s always been us,” he would respond with a smile when children inquired why my mom wasn’t present. And for some reason, that was sufficient.
I eventually stopped thinking about her. My life had something substantial underlying it, not because it didn’t hurt.
Then my phone rang last week.
The number is unknown.
The call was made via video.
I nearly disregarded it. Usually, I do. However, my thumb paused for some reason. Next, tap.
The screen was filled with faint light and white walls. A room in a hospital. In the background, machines hum softly.
The camera then moved.
In the bed was a woman. weak. pale. The gray hair was pulled back too firmly. My chest tightened before my thinking caught up with the familiarity of her eyes.
“Greer,” she said.
Just my name. Kind. Take caution.
I knew right away.
My mouth became parched. “You’re—”
“I understand,” she blurted out. “I am aware that I am unworthy of calling you. or to make any kind of call.
She didn’t express regret. She didn’t elaborate. She simply stared at me as if she was attempting to commit my face to memory before it disappeared.
She said, “I have one request.” “Please wait to say no until you hear it.”
I felt like my heart was stuck in my throat from how hard it was beating. “What are you looking for?”
She gave a headshake. “Not on the phone. Are you going to visit me?
I ought to have declined. I had every justification for doing so.
“I’ll think about it,” I replied instead.
I sat on my bed and stared at nothing for a long time after the call ended. After that, I told my dad downstairs.
He became motionless.
Not surprised. Not upset. He was still, as if time had stopped all around him.
“She called?” he murmured.
I gave a nod.
He rubbed his hands together as he slowly sat down. “You should go,” he remarked after a lengthy period of silence.
I gazed at him. “Are you comfortable with that?”
He remarked, “I’m not sure if ‘okay’ is the right word.” “However, I won’t prevent you from obtaining answers.”
I said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He gave me a close inspection. “Your desire for the truth could never harm me.”
Together, we went.
The hospital had a burnt coffee and disinfectant odor. In person, she appeared more weaker. smaller. It was as if she had been silently losing life for years.
Her face broke when she saw me, not with tears but with something that had been suppressed for too long. She grinned as if she hadn’t let herself smile in nineteen years.
We spent hours conversing.
Not about bulky items. regarding education. films. Books. She listened to me as if it were important when she inquired what I intended to do after graduation. I told her about my awful sense of direction, my favorite professor, and my work.
She never once mentioned going. never gave an explanation.
My dad eventually went outside to give us some privacy.
At that point, she gave it another go.
“My request,” she murmured.
Then she began to cough violently and deeply, causing her body to tremble. A nurse hurried in, whispering comfort while adjusting machinery. My heart was pounding as I stood there defenseless.
My mother reached for my hand after the nurse departed. Her fingers trembled and were chilly.
“Please don’t let it destroy the man who raised you after I tell you the truth,” she whispered.
A shiver ran down my spine.
“What is the truth?” I inquired.
She turned to face the door. “Did he never tell you?”
I gave a headshake.
She appeared to be in pain when she inhaled. “Your biological father is not Miles.”
The words hit hard, but they didn’t make a sound. It feels like something inside my chest is collapsing.
“What?” I muttered.
“He was aware,” she blurted out. “Right from the start. prior to your birth.
My ears were ringing. “So why—”
“Because he loved you,” she said plainly. “And because I was unable to remain.”
She filled me in on everything.
She had been a little girl. Terrified and sick. She was aware that the pregnancy might exacerbate her illness. She was aware that she might not survive long enough to have children. As soon as he learned, my biological father departed.
Miles didn’t.
“He promised to raise you no matter what,” she remarked. He claimed that he was not afraid of biology. It was losing you.
She started crying. “I thought I would ruin your life, so I left.” I reasoned that it would hurt more if you recalled me after I permanently vanished.
I was unsure about how to feel. rage. relief. Sadness. Thank you. It was all intertwined.
“So, what are you asking for?” Silently, I asked.
She took a swallow. “Please don’t tell him that I called you because I was dying when I’m gone.”
I gazed at her. “Why?”
She said, “Because he’d feel guilty.” As if he had let me down. And he didn’t. The greatest gift of my life was given to me by him.
She gave my hand a feeble squeeze. “Assure him that you will defend him in the same manner that he did.”
I took a while to respond.
My dad got up as soon as I left the room.
“Are you alright?” he inquired.
I turned to face him, the man who freely choose me. who did not have to stay.
“I understand,” I muttered.
He lowered his shoulders slightly.
He remarked, “I never wanted it to matter.” “But I was afraid it might.”
I encircled him with my arms. “You’re my father.” That cannot be negotiated.
He gave me a hug as if he had been holding his breath for nineteen years.
Three days later, she died.
I fulfilled my commitment.
However, I occasionally go to her grave. I don’t have to. since I comprehend.
And each time I depart, I return home to the man who has never abandoned me.