He was unrecognizable at first.
I attended my cousin Joel’s park cookout. It was hot, my chair battery was low, and I had to ask a stranger for assistance with the van ramp, which angered me. Joel kept pressuring me to come. Said it would “mean a lot.” I assumed he meant we hadn’t been together forever.
A man in black clothes with a bunch of flowers appeared. I believed he was lost until he smiled.
“Hi, mijo,” he said. “Mind if I sit with you?”
I was affected worst by the voice. My hands grabbed wheels harder. I hadn’t heard that voice in 17 years. Ever after the accident. He left the hospital and never returned.
He presented me some flowers as a peace offering. My cousin stood sheepishly behind him. That’s when I knew Joel set me up.
I was speechless. Chest burnt. Not simply heat.
Looked older. Thinner. Still strong. After everything, my father.
“I heard about the surgery,” he nodded to my arm. “I came to help.”
After he stopped, I gazed at him. “Help? One week ago, I underwent surgery.”
“I know,” he replied.
“Don’t tell me…
Followed from afar. Joel kept me informed. He suggested I should quit hiding.”
I was stunned. What did Joel have?
“You mean you’ve been getting my life updates all along? You never reached out?” My voice broke. Seventeen years, Dad. You skipped graduation. Not once. No birthday card.”
He groaned and glanced down at the flowers as if they explained everything. I didn’t know how to return, hijo. I was embarrassed of what I said to your mom after the accident.
I almost laughed. Ashamed? He named it that?
“I learned to use my arms again in a hospital bed. And you left.”
“I know. I was scared.”
“I was scared,” I said. “I was fourteen.”
There was growing awareness. Joel pretended not to observe, but his neck angle was exactly right.
Rolling away was my goal. The furious, interested side of me wanted to hear more.
Dad massaged his hands. “I thought I wrecked everything. That you’d be better without me.”
“That’s not fatherhood.”
“You’re right,” he muttered. “I didn’t deserve one after that.”
We sat silent. The wind rustled the blossoms’ paper. They were red and withered, like he grabbed them quickly.
“I started drinking again that week,” he whispered. We didn’t stop for a while.”
I blinked. And now?
“Five sober years.”
It surprised me. Five years. It was something. It didn’t erase his seventeen absences.
So why now? I requested. “Why not ten years ago?”
Because I was a coward 10 years ago. Because I tore up every letter I sent you. Joel eventually informed me you’d had enough. That I would regret not trying for the rest of my life.”
Joel. I wanted to resent him but couldn’t. Even when it made no sense, he sought to keep the family together.
“So this whole thing,” I replied, pointing to the grill, music, and people. “Just to get me here?”
“Partly,” Joel replied, intervening. “I thought you wouldn’t come if I said he’d be here. He wouldn’t come until you were. As you know. Make it happen.”
“That’s messed up, man.”
“I know,” Joel shrugged. “But you’re both here, right?”
I remained silent.
Father leaned forward. No need to forgive me now. You never need my forgiveness. But I had to apologize face-to-face.”
His voice snapped.
“I missed much. I don’t deserve another opportunity. But if you need transportation, therapy, or someone to rant at, I’ll be there.”
Part of me wanted to shout. Seventeen years of rage don’t disappear in an afternoon. I felt weary, maybe because I recalled his voice telling bedtime tales. So tired of lugging it.
I left the flowers.
Neither did I depart.
So I said, “Sit down.” Burgers are about done.”
Like he wasn’t sure I meant it, his face twitched.
Joel clapped. “I’ll get you a plate.”
Dad placed a foldable chair next me. The remainder of the BBQ was quiet. Sat there while kids rushed by and lemonade spilled on the grass.
I hardly slept that night. I replayed it in my brain. His face. His words. His rose-holding hand trembled.
I found a message under my door the following morning.
I want to take you to lunch. You and me alone. Not now, maybe later. I’ll wait. –Dad.”
I crumpled it. Smoothed it out. It was crumpled again. I took it from my trash bin after two hours and put it in my drawer.
In the following weeks, he texted every Sunday. Brief message. I hope treatment went well. Thinking about you. Or your high school was featured. Makes me grin.
I remained silent.
I rolled out onto the porch and saw him mending my mailbox. Say Joel informed him it was busted months ago. He brought everything including tools.
He made me want to shout. Instead, I remarked, “You’re doing it wrong.”
He chuckled. “Probably. Want to help?”
I did.
That became our thing. We worked on gutters, fence posts, and even my AC unit when he found anything little.
I hadn’t forgiven him. Not really. But I allowed him around. Knowing my coffee had cream but no sugar, he brought two.
Then my wheelchair battery failed at the grocery store. I had nobody close. I phoned him instinctively.
“Don’t move,” he said. I’m 10 minutes away.”
Arriving in seven.
He glanced over and remarked, “You called me.” then assisted me into the vehicle.
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“I won’t forget.”
Weeks became months. While watching a Lakers game, I said, “You still go to meetings?”
“Every Thursday,” he added. Want to come?
“Maybe.”
I never went. His request meant something.
I was surprised by the twist.
Joel became unwell.
Real ill, not hospitalized. Cancer.
Everyone believed he was invincible. He held our dysfunctional family together. Then he was in a chemo chair, losing weight and making stupid jokes.
Father stepped up.
He drove Joel to every appointment. Made him food. Sit with him throughout infusions. Dad slept on the floor with Joel when he was too weak to get up.
I watched everything. Quietly. A side view.
Joel contacted me and urged, “Don’t waste your life being mad forever. People change. They do or not. What sort of guy you want to be is up to you.”
He died two months later.
Dad stood with me during the funeral. He didn’t weep publicly. But he held my hand as I nearly fell out of the chair.
We sat silently at my house that night. Just us two.
He glanced over and muttered, “I wish I’d been like him.”
“You’re trying,” I replied.
Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Did he forgive me?”
I glanced at him and replied, “I think he did a long time ago.”
His breath was weak. “And you?”
I remained silent. Just stared at the sky and let silence speak.
I’m still unsure whether forgiveness exists. But I know—people may return. They can try. And sometimes that’s enough to restart.
He’s my emergency contact now. He alone recalls my favorite pizza topping and my beach love.
He never gave me flowers again. Stories, little acts of kindness, and presence are his gifts.
I hadn’t spoken to my dad in 17 years.
We chat every Sunday.
Holding a grudge doesn’t mean you have to forgive. Possibly, just listen. Sometimes the folks who shattered your heart are attempting to mend it.
A changed life is sometimes the finest apology.
If this story touched you, tell someone who needs to hear it. Maybe it’ll help someone start mending. Any similar story? I’d love to hear it.
