Page 10 of Doctor One Night

My father’s betrayal was a constant reminder of how easily someone can walk away and how devastating it can be to depend on someone who doesn’t stick around. That’s why I’ve always kept my guard up, why I focus on my work instead of getting caught up in relationships that could pull me off course.

When Mom got sick, it felt like the world was falling apart. Watching her fade, knowing there was nothing I could do, that I couldn’t save her, was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. She didn’t have access to the kind of experimental treatments that might have made a difference, that might have given her more time. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

That’s why I do what I do—why I’m so driven to make a difference in the field of medical research. I hope I can make a difference so other, maybe, won’t have to go through what we went through, to lose someone they love because they couldn’t afford the best care or didn’t have access to the latest treatments. It’s what keeps me going, even on the days when the work is overwhelming and the weight of it all seems too much to bear.

I run a hand over the smooth surface of the headstone, tracing the etched letters of her name with my fingertips. “I miss you,” I say softly, the words falling into the quiet air. “I’m trying to make you proud, to do something that matters. I just wish you were here to see it.”

A soft breeze rustles through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender, and for a moment, I can almost believe she’s here with me, watching over me like she always did.

I sit there for a while longer, letting the silence wrap around me like a comforting blanket. This place, this ritual, is my way of staying connected to her, of keeping her memory alive in a world that moves on too quickly.

I know what it’s like to love someone with your whole heart and then lose them, to be left with nothing but memories and a grave to visit. Love is both comforting and the one thing that can hurt you more than any physical pain I've ever experienced. A double-edged sword.

Eventually, I stand, brushing the dirt from my knees. “I’ll be back soon,” I promise, even though she doesn’t need me to say it. I always come back. She knows my heart. She always has.

Frankie's House

3:18 pm

I walk into my house, the familiar click of the door shutting behind me, echoing through the quiet space. It’s a small, cozy place—nothing fancy, but it’s mine.

The scent of the lavender candle I had burning before I went out still lingers in the air, mixing with the faint smell of coffee that’s been a constant companion throughout the day. Oops. I didn’t mean to leave it burning, but walking into is almost like Mom is here with me.

I toss my keys on the entry table and make my way to the kitchen, where a small stack of mail sits waiting for me. The usual—bills, advertisements, a flyer or two. I start flipping through them, not really paying much attention, just sorting the junk from the things that actually need my attention.

And then I see it.

An envelope, tucked between the electric bill and a coupon for pizza delivery. It’s different, though. It’s handwritten, the kind of thing you don’t see often anymore.

I don’t recognize the handwriting. The paper is plain, but the writing on the front is careful and deliberate. My name, my address. No return name, only an address that isn’t familiar.

My fingers hovering hesitantly over the envelope. Something about it feels off. Or maybe just unfamiliar. I can’t remember the last time I got a handwritten letter, much less one that wasn’t from a friend or a colleague.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I tear it open, unfolding the single sheet of paper inside. The handwriting is the same as on the envelope—neat, precise, like someone who took their time crafting each word.

But when I see the name at the bottom, my breath catches in my throat.

Dad. And not just “Dad,” but “Love, Dad.” Who the fuck does he think he is reaching out to me after all this time and calling himself dad? He’s been nothing to me, and especially nothing resembling a dad.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the letter like it’s something foreign, something I can’t quite comprehend. I block his calls so he figures out where I live. I don’t know if I should be creeped out or impressed by his attempt, even if it is a day late and a dollar short.

The man who walked out before I was even born, who left my mother to raise me on her own, who never once reached out, never once tried to be a part of my life, thinks we can be all chummy now. Shit. He better think again. He’s dead to me.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. Part of me wants to crumple the letter up and toss it in the trash where it belongs without giving it the attention it doesn’t deserve. But another part, a part I don’t like to admit exists, needs to know what he has to say.

With trembling hands, I smooth the paper on the cold stone countertop and start to read. The words swim in front of me, but I force myself to focus and take them in.

Frankie,

I know I failed you. I’ve lived with that knowledge for a long time, and there’s no excuse for the choices I made. I wasn’t there when you needed a father, and that’s something I can never change. But I need you to know this: you were born from love. Despite everything, I’ve always carried that with me.

And I never stopped loving you.

You deserved so much better than what I gave you. I’m deeply sorry for abandoning you and for not being the father you needed. There’s no way to make up for that, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I hope you’ll accept this apology for what it’s worth.

I’m sick, Frankie. I don’t say this to garner sympathy or to ask for anything more than a moment of your time. I might not have much time left, and before I go, I wanted you to know the truth about where my heart has always been.

I know I haven’t earned the right to ask anything of you, least of all your forgiveness. But if there’s one thing I can offer before it’s too late, it’s my sincerest apology. I’m sorry, Frankie, for everything.

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