Chapter 6: What My Father Needed to Say
Luis arrived the next afternoon.
I was already in the room when he got there.
Dad was awake, propped up slightly, a little more color in his face than the day before.
The nurses said that sometimes happened near the end — a small rally, a brief window of clarity.
I was trying not to read too much into it.
Then the door opened and Luis stepped in, and my father's face did something I hadn't seen it do in eighteen years.
It crumpled.
Not in grief.
In relief.
Luis looked older.
Of course he did.
We all did.
His hair had gone mostly silver at the temples, and there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before.
But he stood the same way he always had — shoulders back, hands loose at his sides, the posture of someone who'd learned not to brace for things.
He stopped just inside the door.
"Mr.
Vega," he said.
"Luis." Dad's voice was thin.
"Come here."
Luis crossed the room and stood at the side of the bed.
He didn't sit.
He just stood there, close enough that my father could reach him if he wanted to.
Dad reached out.
His hand found Luis's forearm and held on.
"I owe you an apology," Dad said.
"A real one."
"Sir, you don't have to — "
"I do." He tightened his grip slightly.
"I took her from you.
I helped do that.
I believed what I was told because it was easier than asking questions.
Because I liked having a reason to be angry at her instead of at myself." He glanced at me briefly, then back to Luis.
"I was a coward.
And I let a coward's choice ruin two lives."
Luis's jaw moved.
He didn't speak right away.
"I forgive you," he said finally.
"I mean that."
"I don't deserve it that fast."
"Maybe not.
But I've been carrying this for eighteen years.
I'm tired of the weight." Luis pulled a chair close and sat down.
"I want to put it down."
Dad nodded slowly.
His hand relaxed on Luis's arm but didn't let go.
Then he looked at me.
"Rosa."
I moved closer.
"I called you selfish," he said.
"When you were already hurting.
When you came to me for help and I turned you away." His eyes were wet.
"That's the thing I can't forgive myself for.
Not the years.
Not the silence.
That moment.
The look on your face when I said it."
"Dad — "
"Let me finish." He took a breath.
"You were right to leave.
You were right about everything.
And I was so busy loving the son I never had that I forgot to protect the daughter I did have."
The room was very quiet.
I sat on the edge of the bed and took his other hand.
"I know," I said.
"I know you're sorry."
"Is that enough?"
I thought about eighteen years.
About the holidays I'd spent with friends because going home wasn't an option.
About the times I'd picked up the phone to call him and put it back down.
About all the ordinary moments — a bad day at work, a piece of good news, a funny thing that happened — that I'd had no one to share with because the person I'd have called first had chosen someone else.
"It's enough," I said.
"It's not nothing.
But it's enough."
He exhaled.
Long and slow, like he'd been holding it for years.
Luis stayed for two hours.
He and my father talked — really talked, the way they used to, easy and unhurried, about nothing important.
Baseball.
A road trip they'd taken once to see a game three states over.
A fish my father had caught and released and talked about for years afterward like it had been a personal relationship.
I sat in the corner chair and listened and didn't say much.
At one point Luis caught my eye across the room and held it for a second.
Just a second.
Then he looked back at my father.
When he finally stood to leave, he shook my father's hand.
My father held on a beat longer than necessary.
"Take care of her," Dad said quietly.
Luis glanced at me.
"That's her call to make."
Dad almost smiled.
"Fair enough."
In the hallway, Luis and I stood together for a moment outside the room.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"I don't know yet," I said honestly.
"Ask me in a week."
He nodded.
"I'll do that."
He walked toward the elevator.
I watched him go.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from my lawyer.
*Diane's attorney called.
She wants to discuss terms before this goes further.
Call me when you can.*
I looked at the message for a long moment.
May you like
Then I typed back: *Tomorrow morning.
First thing.*
