Page 53 of The Virgin Playboy

“You know I've always been a realist. Your sister, her husband, and kid are close. Half the family's already here, and close. The nurses are close. Right now, they're just making me comfortable.”

But I just didn't want to hear it. Dad was dying, stage four bowel cancer. It was like he was telling me he was going tomorrow. I hadn't seen him physically in eight years, though. I wasn't sure I was ready to be in a world without him.

“Gosh, why didn't anybody tell me sooner? I would have come back years ago,” I pressed, fighting back tears.

“Graham, this close to the end, I don't want to argue. I just want to spend time with my son. My daughters. My lovely wife. And maybe, just maybe, meet that woman I've been hearing so much about.” We shared a light laugh, but man, the battle to laugh to combat tears was hard. I mean, about-to-lose-your-dad hard.

“She’s great. Dad, I choose to be hopeful, but I wish you didn't have to meet her in these circumstances.”

“It's okay if you don't want to burden her with this. But to meet the woman who brought my son back home would be an honor,” he admitted.

“I'll ask her. Just be prepared if she's not mentally prepared for that,” hiding my discomfort behind a laugh.

“Have you met your niece yet?”

“Not quite, but I just got here, Dad. There's time.

“When are you gonna start having kids?” my dad joked.

“Dad, come on. That's not funny. Plus, me and Jaq aren't at that stage yet. But I do love her.”

“Think she could be the one?”

I was trying, but failing miserably not to gush when I admitted, “I don't know, maybe.”

“Then I'm glad you're happy. You are the only one of us able to survive on his own. In that regard, you're probably the strongest of us, too,” he said.

“Not strong enough to be without you, though,” I admitted through a teary-eyed smile. “I finally come home, and then I don't even know how much time I have with you. You have to admit that sort of sucks. Like I was pushed out just because I needed to go my own way.”

“You're brave in that way, Graham. It was hard seeing my only son follow a path that wasn't mine or that I didn't lead him to, but that's what being a man is. Guiding your own way. Trusting in yourself to do so. You know, you never really become your own man until your father dies⁠—”

“Come on, Dad, don't say die. I mean it, just be with me in this moment. Without having to think of what comes next,” I pleaded. My indifference shifting between preparing to mourn…but like… still feeling joy. I had to remind myself that if I had waited any longer, we wouldn't even have this. I could choose to be angry. I could reach each emotional stage of grief with resentment, or I could choose to experience joy. In the moment I was choosing joy.

“You know, it's around the time we see the yearly showing of Toiere⁠—”

“Yeah, Dad, I know,” surprised that he remembered. Every year, whenever one of us became of age—which for the most part, had only been me and Winnie—Mum and Dad let us feel like adults by taking us to the Opera House in Auckland.

We'd get dressed up. Go for a classy dinner afterwards. The show would change from year to year until I turned fifteen. But when Toiere started becoming a popular showing, Dad would take us to that specific masterpiece, as it honored both his love for opera and our Māori culture and language.

I always joked about my dad being the whitest man in the world, and he certainly wasn't above criticism, but he was still my dad. He never discouraged me from getting my Tā moko, or tried to make us feel anything less than pride for being Māori, so the annual viewing, while I hadn't been in close to a decade, it still meant a lot to me.

“I want you guys to go. One last time before I go. Like you and Winnie used to. I obviously can't come, and your mother doesn't enjoy them as much without me. But if I could share that one last memory of it, especially if you took a lot of pictures, I’d have such beautiful memories for the afterlife.”

“Gosh, it's so hard hearing you talk like that,” I teared up. “Feels like last year you were teaching me how to play rugby, and now you're telling me I have to live without you.”

“I'm just trying to prepare you. I'm not doing it to be cruel or unkind. I just need you to be ready. Can you do that for me, son?”

“I'll try,” not even trying to hold back my sadness.

“You can start by working a day or two at the farm. Help out a little. Your sister's usually got things under control, but I just want you to remember what this family has built. All the privileges it's given you. I don't want you to take those things for granted.”

“I don't.”

“Good”

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Graham?”