PART 9
For a while, neither of us spoke.
“Do you believe him?” she finally asked.
“I believe the evidence.”
Relief flickered across her face, but I continued.
“I believe Colin deceived him. I believe your father was frightened.”
“And after that?”
“After that, he chose silence.”
Lily looked down.
“He admitted that.”
“That does not return the years.”
“No.”
She lifted her eyes.
“Do you hate him?”
I looked through the café window at people crossing the street, carrying shopping bags and cups of coffee.
“I don’t know what I feel yet,” I said. “I no longer see him as the selfish thief I believed he was. But I am still angry with the man who came close enough to see me and drove away.”
Lily nodded slowly.
“That makes sense.”
“What was he like at the end?” I asked.
Her expression softened.
“He was in hospice. The medication kept him asleep most of the time. On his final clear night, he asked for the storage key. He made me repeat your address until he was certain I remembered it.”
She looked down at her hands.
“He said he should have come home.”
“Did he suffer?”
“Not for long. His breathing slowed early the next morning. I held his hand until he was gone.”
My throat tightened.
“Was he afraid?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“But not of dying. He was afraid you would never know the truth.”
We sat in silence.
Then Lily asked, “May I visit you again?”
“You are not responsible for his choices.”
“I know.”
“But you are part of what he left behind.”
I reached across the table and placed my hand over hers.
“Yes. You may visit.”
Over the following months, we met regularly.
Lily told me how Andrew had taught her to ride a bicycle by running behind her until he tripped and tore his trousers. She told me about the Sunday breakfasts he cooked using recipes he remembered from Bennett’s Table.
She described a father who attended every school event, even when he arrived in dusty work clothes.
I told her about the boy he had been before fear and shame changed him.
I told her how he sang badly while washing dishes. How he cried when his 1st dog passed away. How Robert pretended to be strict with him but kept every drawing Andrew had ever made.
We were not rebuilding what had been lost.
That was impossible.
We were building something new from what remained.
Rebecca Lane helped transfer the repayment fund into my name. She verified the cashier’s check, business sale, tax records, will, and account history.
For the 1st time in decades, I stopped calculating the price of every grocery item before placing it in my cart.
I reduced my bookkeeping work.
I replaced the mattress that had hurt my back for years. I repaired the leaking faucet and bought a dependable used car.
Then I placed enough money into an education fund for Lily to finish nursing school without working every night.
She protested.
“I did not come here for money.”
“I know.”
“My father left me his personal estate.”
“And I am choosing what to do with part of the repayment fund.”
“You have already lost enough.”
“That is exactly why I know what it means to struggle without help.”
She shook her head.
“Lily, your grandfather and I saved because we wanted the next generation to live more easily than we did. Let me complete 1 of his dreams.”
She finally agreed.
I used part of the remaining money as a down payment on a small 2-bedroom house.
The kitchen needed paint, and the backyard was mostly hard soil. But sunlight filled the living room every afternoon, and the neighbors waved from their porches.
For the 1st time, I owned the place where I slept.
1 bedroom was mine.
The other was for Lily.
Several months later, she drove me to the cemetery where Andrew had been buried.
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