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Dean looked at both of us – his daughter, found as an adult after too many years lost, and this unwavering man who stood beside her. "Alright," he finally answered, "One day at a time, right? It's all any of us really got."
And it was enough. Maybe too good to last, that tiny voice of apprehension whispered. But that night, and every night after, I made the calls. At first, his voice was muffled, sluggish with what he claimed was medication side effects. But as time progressed, a change happened.
"So, there's this nurse on duty called Marge," he told me one sunny afternoon, a hint of life back in his voice. "You wouldn't believe the gossip this place holds. I'm thinking there's a trashy romance novel tucked away under those hairnets."
Another day, as the rain started beating against my window, his voice held a newfound sharpness. "There was another group session today. Turns out you aren't alone when you start seeing the world through gray goggles. Funny how that works, huh?"
Each call was a tiny miracle - him being open, joking, finding small glimpses of life worth talking about. He was rediscovering the person buried beneath. And then, the bravest question slipped out one evening, almost without thought.
"Hey," I swallowed the lump rising in my throat, "Could I maybe start calling you... Dad?"
Silence clung to the phone line, punctuated only by the hum of hospital room machinery. When he finally spoke, the emotion thick in his voice sent a wave of joyful tears streaming down my cheeks.
"You always were my girl, Lina. Even when I didn’t know you existed," he said, and it was enough. It was like he was giving me permission to not just mourn the years we'd missed, but to claim the time we still had. Every bit of it, good and bad, a future finally shared. As I pressed the phone tight to my ear, with his laughter rumbling down the line, I finally understood, with bone-deep certainty - a real dad couldn't be made overnight. But love? Love could grow in even the strangest of places, if you dared to plant the seed.
Then one morning there was a surprise at my doorstep – a brown package from Dean nestled among a pile of bills and junk mail. I showed it to Hank over breakfast, trying to conceal the giddy hope within me.
"Think he finally won enough Bingo money to go all crazy? Maybe there's a pet iguana inside." Hank joked, the teasing sparkle in his eyes warming my heart. It felt like agessince he hadn't looked at Dean with quiet worry. Today, there was simply acceptance, the kind that comes from the hard-won trust of seeing good intentions translate into tangible steps of progress.
I carefully tore at the packing tape. Not an iguana, but a smooth, leather-bound journal, an almost hesitant note taped to the front. Scrawled across it was my dad's familiar, jagged handwriting: "Remember how much you wanted this when we went shopping? I told you I’d gift it to you when you least expected it. I figured you'd fill it faster than my old brain could come up with any stories."
There were the tears threatening to spill over, but the joyous ones this time. Maybe he truly believed he'd have something interesting to say soon. I clutched the journal and dialed the hospital, a bounce in my voice as I asked for him.
They didn't need a last name. That jolt of cold dread snaked up my spine before the words even hit me. "Checked out? But... when?" My question choked midway through.
Hank saw the color drain from my face. "What, Lina?" The worry edging back into his voice seemed faraway, as if I stood behind a suddenly erected glass wall.
"A few days ago. He said he was doing much better. The doctors…" The nurse's voice softened. I barely managed a forced thank you before ending the call.
“What is it, baby girl?” Hank asked, now standing fully alert.
"Better," I echoed the nurse's words, barely recognizing my own voice, "He got better. They let him go home." And somewhere within me, a small flame danced, the irrational belief that the ending this time would be different. We could try again, do anything... I'd teach him about life, he'd fill that notebookwith his tales. Maybe we wouldn't get a lifetime, but it had to be more than this - the constant cycle of fragile hope and shattering despair.
We drove in silence, a strange melody flitting through my head, a silly lullaby my mom used to sing. Today, it held a joy it hadn't in decades. Dean got better. He was at his home. And he was waiting for me to show him his second chance.
At his building, I didn't wait for Hank. One knock, my hands clutching the worn leather of the journal as if it were a lifeline, then through the unlocked door. An excitement bubbled in my chest as I pushed aside the worn curtain, sunlight slicing through the dusty apartment. I started planning in my head – we'd go to Hank's restaurant, order Dean’s favorite kind of comfort food, the kind only a daughter could order without judgment.
"Dad?" I called out, laughter already spilling from my lips. My footsteps stopped abruptly when I reached the bedroom. There, crumpled on the faded bedsheet was Dad.
My first thought was denial. This can't be. We were meant to have time. A silly thought, but real – maybe his breathing was simply too quiet to hear. Maybe he finally was just at peace. I stumbled over, as if sleepwalking, sinking to my knees by his side. Not rest, the unnatural angle of his hand told me that even before I willed myself to touch his icy skin. Just stillness.
I sat there, staring blankly. Was this shock? It didn't feel like anything at all. My chest burned empty, as if even tears dried up the moment hope did. It felt like falling forever, without ever landing.
That precious journal clutched in my hand. Dean. The Dad I barely got to know, then finally had for one stolen moment of joy, only to have it yanked away again. There was just silence,and somehow my brain replayed that ridiculous lullaby again and again, its sweet promise now the cruelest, loudest sound in the whole world.
I called Hank and he started talking. A silly joke about someone parking like an idiot, probably meant to break through the oppressive silence.
"Hey, baby girl," he then started with the usual teasing lilt, "Ready to head to the restaurant? And ready to face the ultimate punishment for stealing those last fries? Maybe next time we'll hide dessert."
I listened, his laughter echoing against the utter stillness within me. Each question, a punch I no longer felt.
"Okay, seriously now-" he went on, worry edging through his jovial charade now. "Why aren’t you talking?”
And then, my voice broke the quiet. Just one word, flat and echoing. "Dead."
There was silence. I cut him off with quiet dread, unable to repeat myself. "Dean. That's just how he was when I found him here."
I heard Hank running up the stairs and then into the bedroom. There was no need for words. He held me for an eternity while the world kept moving with brutal efficiency. Men I didn't know arrived, speaking hushed tones while handling ‘the body’, that's what they called it. Dean wasn't a person anymore, but an object to be carried down and covered in an anonymous white sheet. That made a numbness within me crack a little, like ice about to shatter.
