Chapter 8: What My Father Finally Said
The formal response came twelve days later.
It was not from my mother's attorney.
It was a handwritten letter from my father, delivered by post, in an envelope with his return address in the corner the way he had always written letters, even now when no one wrote letters anymore.
I opened it at the kitchen table on a Tuesday morning while Emma was getting the kids ready for school.
*Zane.*
*I have spent the last two weeks thinking about what to say to you.
Your mother doesn't know I'm writing this.
Maddie doesn't know either.
I need you to understand that.*
*I have read the letter from Patricia Holt.
I have read Ruth's documentation.
I sat with it for a long time.*
*I am not going to tell you your mother was right.
I am also not going to tell you everything Ruth said is accurate, because I was not present for all of it and I cannot speak to what I don't know.
But I can speak to what I do know.*
*I know that I said you were the strong one.
I have said it your whole life and I said it again last week and I said it like it was a gift.
It wasn't.
I understand that now.*
*I know that I was on the phone with your mother in the room when I called you the morning after the party.
I told myself she was just there.
That she wasn't directing me.
I knew that wasn't true while I was saying it.*
*I know that Noah deserved better on his birthday.
I know that I did not call him.
I know that I did not send a card or a gift or even a message.
I told myself it was because of the situation between you and your mother.
That is not a reason.
That is an excuse.
He is seven years old and he is my grandson and I failed him.*
*I don't know what your mother did with the estate letter.
I want to believe she didn't intercept it.
I am not certain I believe that.*
*I am not asking you to come back to the family.
I am not asking you to forgive anyone.
I am asking you to know that I see what happened.
That I am ashamed of the phone call.
That I am ashamed of a great many things.*
*If you are willing to talk — just you and me, without your mother or Maddie present — I would like that.
But I understand if you're not ready.*
*Your father.*
I read it twice.
Then I folded it carefully and set it on the table.
Emma came in from the hallway.
She looked at the letter and then at my face.
"Dad," I said.
She sat down.
"What did he say?"
I slid the letter across to her.
She read it slowly.
I watched her eyes move across the page.
When she finished, she set it down and looked at me.
"He knows."
"He's known for a while, I think.
He just didn't say it."
"What are you going to do?"
I looked at the letter.
At my father's handwriting, which was slightly shakier than it used to be.
He was sixty-eight years old.
He had spent sixty-eight years in the same house as my mother, and I did not think that had been entirely easy.
"I'm going to call him," I said.
"Just him."
Emma nodded.
"Okay."
"Not yet.
Not today.
I need a few days."
"Take what you need."
Noah came running into the kitchen in his school shoes, backpack half-zipped.
"Dad, can you sign my reading log?"
I picked up a pen.
"Come here."
He dropped his backpack on the chair beside me and pulled out the crumpled reading log from the front pocket.
I signed it and handed it back.
"Dad," he said, stuffing it into his bag.
"Yeah?"
"Is everything okay?"
I looked at my son.
Seven years old, already watching the adults around him for signs of weather.
"Yeah, buddy," I said.
"Everything's okay."
He zipped his bag and ran back down the hallway.
I heard the front door open and Emma calling after him about his jacket.
I picked up my father's letter and read the last paragraph one more time.
*He is seven years old and he is my grandson and I failed him.*
I folded it again and put it in the inside pocket of my jacket, close.
Three days later, I called my father.
He answered before the second ring.
"Zane."
"Dad.
Can you meet me somewhere?
Just us."
A pause.
May you like
Then: "Yes.
Tell me where."
