The door chimes, and I glance up to see him walk in. It’s like seeing a stranger, yet there’s a familiarity in his face because I’ve seen him over the years in his commercials. He looks older, frailer than I imagined. Up close, there’s no trace of the slick car salesman. He’s just a tired man who doesn’t seems out of place.
He spots me and hesitates, as if unsure whether to approach. I nod slightly, giving him permission, and he makes his way over to the table.
“Hi, Frankie,” he says softly, almost as if he’s testing the sound of my name.
“Hello,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel—anger, sadness, maybe even relief that he’s here. But I’m not ready to let any of it show.
He sits down across from me, his movements careful, like he’s afraid he might break something. There’s an awkward silence, the kind that stretches on just long enough to make you uncomfortable.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he finally says, his voice laced with uncertainty.
“I almost didn’t,” I admit, staring at him directly. “But you said you were dying. And you’ve at least made a valiant effort, so I figured I’d give you a chance to say your piece.”
He nods, looking down at his hands, which are trembling slightly. “I am. I didn’t want to burden you, but… I couldn’t leave without at least trying to talk to you.”
“What is it?” I ask, my voice sharp with impatience. “What are you dying from?”
He looks up at me, and I can see the weariness in his eyes. “I have Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It’s a rare form, and it’s… aggressive. The doctors haven’t been able to find anything that works. It isn’t responding to the traditional treatment methods.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. Cancer. Of course, it’s cancer. A part of me has a modicum of sympathy for him, but another part, the part that’s been hurt by his absence, is numb. My mother, the woman he abandoned along with his child, also had a terminal illness. I didn’t see him visiting while she was dying.
I’m not sure what to say, so I just nod, letting him continue.
“They’ve tried the usual treatments,” he says, his voice faltering. “But it’s not responding. They’ve mentioned some experimental options, but…” He trails off, the unspoken truth hanging between us. He’s running out of time.
I swallow, trying to process the information. This man, who I barely know but who has shaped so much of who I am, is dying. And there’s nothing anyone can do about that. Strangely, when it was my mom in his place, I wanted to do anything and everything I could to try to stop it, to fix her. With him, I don’t have that urge.
“Why are you telling me this?” I finally ask.
“Because I needed you to know,” he says, his voice trembling. “I know I haven’t been there for you, and that’s my biggest regret. But I couldn’t leave this world without at least trying to make things right, to give you some kind of explanation.”
I narrow my eyes, my defenses going up. “And what explanation could possibly make up for twenty-eight years of nothing?”
He flinches, and I can see the pain in his eyes. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, Frankie. I just wanted you to know that… I never stopped thinking about you. I stayed away because your mother said that is what she wanted. I didn’t fight hard enough, and that’s on me. But I did care.”
I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “Caring isn’t enough. Caring didn’t help my mom when she was struggling to raise me on her own. You know, she died twelve years ago, right?”
“I know,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I didn’t find out until after her death, I’m so sorry. I know I failed you both. But I want you to know that I didn’t stay away because I didn’t care. I stayed away because… because I thought I’d already done enough damage. I wasn’t healthy for you two, and you deserved more.”
That sounds like a cop out to me. I don’t know what to say to that. The anger I’ve held onto for so long somehow seems unnecessary now, but I’m not ready to let it go. Not yet.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I finally say, my voice trembling. “But I’m here, and I’m listening. That’s all I can give you right now.”
He nods, tears welling up in his eyes. “That’s more than I deserve.”
We sit in silence for a while, both of us lost in our thoughts. I take a sip of my lukewarm tea because I don’t know what else to do.
I came here expecting to give him a few minutes, tell him to leave me alone and leave, having finally closed that door. But now, I’m not sure what I feel. There’s a part of me that wants to understand, to find some real closure before it’s too late. There’s still a part of me that’s a little girl who wonders why her father didn’t love her enough to stay.
The café feels too small, too stifling now. I need to get out of here to clear my head. Bill’s words are still echoing in my mind, but I can’t deal with them here, not with him watching me, waiting for a reaction I’m not ready to give.
“I think I need to go,” I say, standing up abruptly. My voice sounds distant, even to me.
My father looks up at me, a flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—crossing his face. “Of course, Frankie. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more. I grab my bag, not even bothering to finish the tea that’s gone cold in front of me. My hands are trembling slightly as I turn to leave.
“Thank you for coming,” he says quietly, his voice full of a sadness that tugs at something deep inside me.