My Father's House

I expected to feel sad, or angry, or maybe even scared as I stared at the grey door in front of me. This was my father’s house. My biological father at least. A man I had never met and never even knew existed until five days ago. 

The image I had seen of him floated into my mind. One glance at his eyes, identical to my own had been enough to convince me. I’d traced his face on the photo with the tip of my nail, aware of the soft fingers of the man who held it out to me. My eyes drifted without my consent to my mother standing in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wet with tears. The man I had called dad had his arm wrapped around her shoulders, his eyes boring holes in the floor. 

Questions flooded my brain, bombarding me with hurt and anger until the word slipped from my lips. ‘Why?’ 

We watched my mother flee and then my dad’s gaze met mine, sorrow etched in the lines of his eyes. He must have thought her need was greater than my own because I was left alone with the soft-fingered man. 

‘It took us a while to track you down. He gave no specific details about you, only that the entirety of his estate, which consists of a sizable financial portfolio and his home, was to go to his daughter. But no one seemed to know that you existed, let alone your name, hence the delay. You need not worry about his funeral. That was all taken care of more than a month ago in line with his will.’ The formality and lack of warmth in his voice struck me as so perfectly at odds with my world crashing down around me. 

He left me with the legal papers, keys to the house, and his card in case I had any further questions. I sat soaked in confusion at our dining room table as he showed himself to the door. I did not feel his absence, only shock. 

My eyes danced around the room to the photos of family holidays, the slight burn on the table from my science experiment, and the marks on the frame of the door that had recorded my growth spurt. This was my home. This was my family. And yet there was a new person to consider in my life. And I would never know him. 

My parents returned to find me a statue of bewilderment at the dining room table as they sat opposite me and explained. Their deception had not been a cruel one. My mother and real father had had a brief affair and when she became pregnant he said he would support her financially but had no interest in raising a child. She met my dad shortly after and by the time I was born they were very much in love and so they decided to raise me as their own. Their explanations soothed my mind but not my heart. I had the strangest sensation that my heart consisted only of shattered glass, the broken pieces falling through my chest slicing me open anew with each new detail. 

My mother explained that she sent him a photo of me each year on my birthday and that he continued to send money to support me but he had never expressed any wish to know me or even responded to the letter that accompanied each photo. The anger had come quickly, the outrage at being lied to. I had thrown things, yelled, and made accusations I regret. All the while my parents had nodded their agreement apologizing again and again that they had thought the lie better than the truth. 

My anger was not really for them. It was for the man who had apparently given me my eyes but had no interest in my life. For the first time in my admittedly sheltered existence, I felt the sting of rejection. I wanted to find this man and demand to know why he had chosen to ignore me. But you cannot yell at a dead man and rage is hard to sustain. Soon an ache took its place. But I refused to weep for a man who didn’t care about me, and so I pushed it away. 

Which left me numb and empty as I prepared to enter the home of the man who had given me my eyes. And yet the ache was still there, buried beneath my chill, attempting to force its way through my throat. 

‘No, he doesn’t deserve my tears.’ I whispered into the door resting my head against the smoothed wood as I forced the air deeper into my lungs. My hand wrapped around the cold metal of the doorknob as I wished it was me who was made of steel. 

I had one job today, to walk around the house that was now mine. My parents had offered to come with me, but although I could not explain it to their satisfaction I knew I needed to come here alone. Just as I knew my mother would be sitting in her car a block away, at most, in case I changed my mind. I stiffened my spine and pushed inside the home that was never mine but somehow now belonged to me. 

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It didn’t smell like a home. I knew he’d been moved into hospice care for his final months and thus no one but the cleaner had been in here, but the scent of chemicals shocked me. The thin gauzy curtains let in the midday light as it bounced from the white walls to the pale wood floors and the cream furniture. It reminded me of an asylum, a place devoid of any real decoration or color in case it overstimulated the patients. To the left was the living room, consisting of nothing more than a television and a couch. And the dining room to the right was the same. It looked more like an ad for a new housing development than a home. 

I took a few tentative steps over the threshold concerned that someone would emerge from another room and tell me I didn’t belong here. It was crazy, from what I had learned of my father there was no one else in his life. 

He lived to work. Something to do with computers, mathematics, and analytics that I just couldn’t wrap my head around. He’d been good at it if my new bank balance was any indicator. But outside of work, it seemed almost as if he didn’t have a life. According to the lawyer, the only people that had attended his funeral were a few colleagues, none of whom had spoken on his behalf. And yet, I could not alleviate the sensation that I was an intruder. It wasn’t my home, and I felt like a voyeur as I began a leisurely stroll through the pristine environment of his house. 

I wandered up the stairs finding three bedrooms and again there was little of the man to be seen. The master bedroom was immaculate but devoid of decoration. The next room was practically sterile and must have been a guest room although I doubted he ever had guests. 

The third bedroom I expected to again be an untouched showroom but instead, I found a large well-used desk with a complicated-looking computer setup. There was a dim light on the screen indicating it was asleep but not off and so I sat at the desk and wiggled the mouse. It awoke and prompted me to enter a password. I couldn’t very well guess it. I knew nothing about him. But assuming he might be like my parents I began opening draws on the hunt for a post-it note with all his passwords jotted down. 

I searched in vain, finding only a pair of scissors, a glue stick, and a pen. It wasn’t really a surprise but it was a disappointment. This was the only room that actually seemed to be lived in. I slammed the last draw shut but it did not slide all the way in. So I pulled it out again and tried more carefully. It would not shut all the way. I could feel the resistance of the draw and realized that something must have slipped behind it preventing its closure and so I reached in, bending my arm awkwardly to remove the offending object. I was surprised when my fingers brushed against something smooth and hard. I twisted until I found the edges of its shape and pulled, emerging with a black leather journal. 

I opened the journal and immediately dropped it where it fell closed on the desk. I had just seen my own eyes, not transposed into my father's face, but my actual eyes. It was a photo I knew well of me on my first day of school. I reached for the journal again and opened it. The photo had been glued to the first page, perfectly aligned with the edges of the book. I turned to the next page and found handwriting so neat it could have been printed. Quickly rifling through the pages I noted that the whole book was full and there were more photos glued neatly throughout the book. 

As I flicked through the pages an envelope fell out. I placed the journal back down on the table, slid my finger under the edge of the thick paper, and extracted the letter. It was not quite the same perfect print I had seen in the book but it was clearly the same writer. And it was addressed to me. 

‘I must apologize for the messiness of this message. I don’t know what you know about my disease but it is making it difficult to write. I know you will find this book when you are given my house. 

I wish I could write something comforting or beautiful but that is not a skill I ever possessed, so instead, I hope you will settle for an explanation. 

I was never good with people, least of all children. And so when your mother told me she was pregnant I thought it best I not be involved in your life. I did not think I would make a good father. 

I regretted that decision. But by the time my remorse was deep enough to make me want to change you had a father and from what I knew he was a kind and patient man. Two things I could never be. And so I thought it best to keep my distance and let you grow up in a loving household without my interference. 

I am still not sure if this was the right choice. That is the most annoying thing about relationships of any kind. There is no clear answer. But it was the choice I made and I hope that is okay. 

I loved you as best I could. And I’m sorry I did not get to watch you grow up. However, I thought of you often. Every time your mother sent me a photo I put it in this journal to mark the years. And the rest of the time whenever I had something I wish I could say to you, I wrote it in here. 

You do not have to read it. I only wanted you to know that there was not a day I did not think about you. You are the reason I know I had a heart.’ 

The ache I had buried rose to the surface as I pushed the letter away lest I mark it with the tears I could finally let fall.