Page 120 of Until I Find You

All my life, private, serious conversations with my father occurred in his office. And this one is no different. Except he doesn’t ask me to sit like he usually does. He goes to his bookshelf and picks one of the navy-colored boxes that sits on the top shelf. There are three of them, unlabeled. I’ve never noticed them.

“Well, first of all,” he says, before placing the box on his desk. “Congratulations.”

I slide my hands in my pockets. I’m nervous. Not sure why. “Thanks, Dad.”

Dad leans on the edge of the desk, staring me down. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Depends?”

“You can say fuck off if you want.”

I gesture for him to go ahead.

He raises a dark eyebrow. “Planned?”

Instantly, my chest locks up. “No.”

“Like father like son, huh?”

I try to laugh, but it comes out ragged. “Dad–”

“Hey, I’m not judging. You two clearly have something. It’s obvious.”

Annoyance abates. I’ll let him be earnest, even if he goes about it wrong.

“The way you look at each other…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to let you know I’m not worried. I just wanted to know in case I could offer any advice…not that you would want anything from me.”

Dad is a CEO, has been for decades. He doesn’t do tongue-tied. I have to admit, it’s very entertaining.

He sighs and then smiles. “You might not believe me when I say it, but being a parent is the best job you can have. Even if I wasn’t very good at it, I…”

I don’t say anything, mostly because if I speak, I’ll try to comfort him, and I don’t want to do that. Not right now. Still, it’s nice to hear he thinks that.

“Anyway. I know you don’t think I cared.”

“Dad–”

“Just hear me out, Jack. I don’t want to fight.”

I purse my lips to keep from saying anything more.

“I’m proud of you for being such a good man even though I wasn’t the best role model for that,” he says. “Maybe it’s spite, or…” He tries to laugh.

It’s not spite.

My dad wasn’t perfect. He did things I told myself I wouldn’t do. But he also has shown me that being a man, a real man, means accepting your own capacity for change. Just because I didn’t see that until later in his life doesn’t mean I didn’t still learn from him.

He lifts the lid of the box and slides it across the desk toward me. “I know it’s not much, but…”

I gaze down into the box. It’s stuffed to the gills with papers and objects stored in plastic baggies. The first thing I recognize, though, is a small worn bunny rabbit.

“I always wondered where this went,” I say, grabbing the rabbit carefully.

“Bubs the Bunny.”

“Yeah! Bubs. Wow…I forgot about that.” Bubs’s fur is worn down. “I thought I lost him.”

“Your mom wanted to throw it out. She said you were getting too old to sleep with stuffed animals,” Dad says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “So, I kept him after you stayed with me once.”

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