The Hidden Notebook

It wasn't that I didn't know my father. I didn't know him the way he knew himself. I was his son, but not his confidant. Even my mother didn't claim to know him well. She knew the parts he revealed. They were good and loving parts, she always asserted, but it was hard for me to imagine what his love looked like for me as his son. Neither of us would have known if it hadn't been for that small black notebook tucked between the wall and his desk.

It wasn't a large or expensive desk, something he found on the side of the road one day and put in his old pick-up. He sanded and finished it with a warm stain that enhanced the wood grain. Dad always knew how to make objects look good, but he never bothered with his own appearance. It was the effort that mattered, the ability to do something well, not how you looked doing it.

Through the years, the desk seemed to imbue those same qualities as he sat and worked, mastering his computer and the internet. We never really knew what he did there, but there was a lot of reading and writing in that notebook. After his death, we were never able to find it in any of the desk's drawers or the nightstand on his side of the bed. We just assumed it was of no consequence, full of secrets we would never know.

I was home for the holidays and sitting at his desk as mom made her Christmas staples. I brought my family over for the first time that year. I had never come out to my father, so I couldn't really be sure how he would feel about my then-boyfriend, Mark, but I always felt like my mother's openness was a good sign. She never startled even if she did have questions. She invited us over to the house for a few days, which was a welcome retreat from our cramped city apartment.

I had set up my own computer at the desk, enjoying the smells of my mother's kitchen and writing in my own notebook when I dropped my pen, and it rolled under the desk. It was too far to reach kneeling on the floor, and the desk was heavy, so I asked Mark to help. It was like opening a secret door as we revealed both my pen and my dad's small black notebook as it was freed from its hidden nook.

"Babe, what is this?" Mark asked.

"It's my dad's notebook," I said, "we were never able to find it."

"Mom," I said, waving her over from the kitchen, "I think I found that notebook."

She didn't hear me at first over the Christmas Music, but when she saw what I was holding up, her eyes widened, "Is that it?"

"Another mystery reveals itself," I said.

Mark looked confused but seemed to have the same curiosity we did. Inside we found a list:

Things I want for my Son

1. A meaningful life

2. A loving family

3. Connection to Community

4. The ability to make it happen

...whatever that looks like

Behind that page was a love letter to me, his son. Talks, walks, and observations. He knew about me before I knew about me. That I was different from him and my mom, that I wanted different things. He didn't attach a moral value to who I would love. He didn't even attach a gender. He only acknowledged happiness, companionship, and mutual flourishing.

Dad had done a lot of research on the internet and wrestled with his own feelings about who he thought I might become in the process-- but he did it on his own and didn't bring it to me like a burden to bear. Even though I had felt my own guilt and shame throughout the years, I was grateful he didn't bring them back to me. I felt love because that's all he wanted to offer. I read some of the entries aloud, and Mom and I both started crying.

At the end of these musings scribbled near the end was a website, log-in, and password. We typed it in the browser and logged in together. Inside the account was 20,000 dollars earmarked for my future, whatever that would be.

By the next holiday, I had used some of that money to buy Mark an engagement ring. I put the velvet box inside one of the desk drawers, told him to open it, and asked those four words, "Will you marry me?"

He said yes, and we used much of that money to fund our wedding and honeymoon. The money we saved with that investment we used to put a downpayment on our house when we came back. Even my mom's love seemed to get stronger with my dad's clear affirmations offered to our new family. He couldn't have known, exactly, but he knew something. I'm grateful he is a part of my new life now, even if he wasn't here to enjoy it. It's a gift not to wonder if his love would have changed if I had been able to tell him the truth. The only truth he or I needed to know was that he loved me, and I was his son.