When I was twenty-seven, I finally searched for him online.
I found nothing useful.
No obvious social media.
No obituary.
No address I trusted.
I told Mom.
Her reaction surprised me.
She nearly dropped her coffee.
“Why are you looking for him?”
“Because he’s my father.”
“He gave up that privilege.”
“You always say that, but you never tell me what happened.”
She stared into her cup.
“Some doors are better left closed.”
That made me angry.
“It’s my door.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said, “One day, I hope you understand that I was trying to protect you.”
I hated that answer.
I had heard versions of it my entire life.
Mom was sixty-four when she had the stroke.
It happened on a Tuesday morning while she was watering flowers on her porch.
Her neighbor found her.
Naomi reached the hospital before I did.
When I arrived, my sister was sitting outside the ICU with her head against the wall.
One look at her face told me everything.
Mom survived eleven days.
She never woke up.
Naomi and I sat beside her, holding opposite hands.
On the final night, I kept thinking about all the questions I had planned to ask someday.
Who was Dad really?
