My stepdad raised me from the age of four and stayed after my mom died, becoming the only father I ever knew. Hours before his death, he gripped my hand and whispered, “I’ve lied to you your entire life.” Then he gave me an address, and what waited behind that door changed every memory I had of him.
“The pancakes were always shaped like stars,” I told the nurse.
She was adjusting the thin blanket over Frank’s legs, careful not to disturb the tubes running beneath his hospital gown.
“The pancakes were always shaped like stars.”
“Even when I was 35 years old, married, and bringing my own daughter over for breakfast, he’d still pull out that ridiculous little metal cutter.”
Frank’s eyes opened.
They had been closed most of the afternoon, his breathing shallow and uneven, but now he looked directly at me.
For a second, I expected the familiar crooked smile.
Instead, his eyes filled with tears.
They had been closed most of the afternoon.
I leaned closer.
“Dad?”
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Are you in pain?”
He shook his head.
The nurse checked the monitor, then rested a hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll give you two some time.”
“Are you in pain?”
After she left, I picked up the damp cloth from the bedside table and pressed it gently against Frank’s forehead.
“You know, those pancakes weren’t even very good,” I said, trying to coax him back toward me. “They were always burned around the points.”
A faint breath escaped him. It might have been a laugh.
“You still ate them,” he said.
“Of course I ate them. I was afraid you’d make me eat oatmeal if I complained.”
“They were always burned around the points.”
***
Frank married my mother when I was four years old.
At first, I refused to call him anything.
Not Frank.
Not Dad.
Nothing.
When he asked whether I wanted toast, I pointed at the bread.
When he offered to read me a bedtime story, I pulled the blanket over my head.
At first, I refused to call him anything.
My biological father had disappeared before I could form a memory of him, and even at four, I understood enough to distrust men who arrived carrying suitcases.
Frank never pushed.
He learned that I liked strawberry jam spread all the way to the crust.
He sat outside my bedroom during thunderstorms because I would not let him come inside.
Every Sunday, he made apple pancakes and pressed the batter into stars with an old metal cutter.
Frank never pushed.
One morning, nearly three months after he married my mother, I wandered into the kitchen and called him Dad without thinking.
He dropped the spatula.
Neither of us mentioned it.
He simply placed the least-burned pancake on my plate.
I wandered into the kitchen and called him Dad without thinking.
My mother died five months later.
A brain aneurysm took her so quickly that the last conversation I remembered having with her was about whether I had put my shoes away.
The house was filled with relatives.
They whispered in hallways and looked at Frank when they thought I was not watching.
My mother died five months later.
“He isn’t her real father.”
“Her aunt could take her.”
“He’ll want to start over.”
I spent the night after the funeral sitting beneath the kitchen table with my knees pulled against my chest.
Frank found me there shortly before sunrise.
He lowered himself onto the floor without asking why I was hiding.
“He’ll want to start over.”
“Are you leaving?” I whispered.
He looked as though I had struck him.
“No.”
“Everybody leaves.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
Frank reached beneath the table and held out his little finger.
“I promise.”
He kept it.
“Are you leaving?”
***
Years later, he walked me down the aisle.
At my daughter’s christening, he stood beside me with one hand beneath her head, afraid I might drop her even though I was 32.
Whenever I asked about his life before my mother, he gave the same answer.
“The important part started when you came along, sweetheart.”
I always heard devotion in those words.
I never heard what he was leaving out.
Years later, he walked me down the aisle.
Frank’s health began failing shortly after his 78th birthday.
First came the exhaustion.
Then the weight loss.
Then the tests, the specialists, and the careful sentences doctors use when they already know the ending.
During his final week, I slept in a vinyl chair beside his bed.
Frank’s health began failing shortly after his 78th birthday.
I woke whenever his breathing changed.
I memorized every beep from the monitors.
On the last night, the doctor asked me to step into the hallway.
“It may only be a few hours, Rosalie.”
I nodded because speaking would have broken me.
“It may only be a few hours, Rosalie.”
When I returned, Frank appeared to be asleep.
I sat down and slipped my hand beneath his.
His fingers suddenly closed around my wrist… hard.
“Promise you’ll hear me out before you hate me,” he suddenly said.
