I thought I was simply comforting a dying stranger. Then his lawyer handed me a mysterious box after the funeral. I never expected what was inside.

PART 1

Two years ago, after my mother died, I began volunteering at a small hospice, where I met Julian.

He was fifty-nine. While the other patients often had families who visited, Julian had no one. So I started stopping by.

Soon, I became the person he waited for. I brought him coffee, stayed after my shift, and listened to stories about the life he regretted wasting.

One evening, he gripped my hand.

“I have one last wish,” he said. “Pretend you’re my daughter until I’m gone. I know it sounds strange, but life separated me from my little girl before she was even born.”

His words cut deep.

My mother had raised me alone, and my father had left before I was born. I knew nothing about him — not even his name.

I should have found Julian’s request strange. Instead, my heart broke for him.

“Well then, hello, Dad,” I said with a smile.

Julian laughed.

For six weeks, we were inseparable. I pushed his wheelchair through the gardens, took him to his favorite diner, and drove him to the ocean so he could feel sand beneath his feet one last time.