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We’d said those words before, but about sex.
“Thank you,” I say.
I enter my suite, shutting the door behind me. The emptiness of the room matches how I feel inside. The room is so tastefully decorated, but it’s all a facade, a cover for the ugly reality.
My phone rings, and I silence the call from my mother before making my way toward the shower. But she keeps calling. Two times, three, four. Then she seems to give up.
And the lawyer calls.
I wag my finger at the phone. “I’m not falling for that,” I say, before answering the call.
“Mr. Tecker, your father left you a letter,” he says as if worried I’m about to hang up. Surely, my mother tipped him off. Or maybe he’s not the type to make small talk.
My heart sinks at his words. A letter is more than I expected from my dead father.
“I’d like to drop this off with you tonight, if that’s possible.”
“Sure, I’m at-”
“I know where you are, Mr. Tecker.” Of course, he already knows.
Ten minutes later, someone knocks at my door and I answer. The lawyer offers me the letter, and the second I accept it, he walks away.
With shaking hands, I close the door, staring down at the paper.
Dad's handwriting stares back at me from the page. Memories rush over me, and I think about all the times he let me down. All the days and nights I wished he’d loved me. All the trips I was never part of as he and mom lived their best lives as if they weren’t parents, and I didn’t exist.
I sit down at the hotel desk, staring at the letter. Then I stand up and pace, trying to prepare myself for whatever might be waiting.
And when I sit again with a deep breath, I open the letter. The first thing I notice is how shaky his writing is, as if he’d been weak when he wrote the words. Then the words take on a life of their own, filling my mind with his voice, even though I thought I’d forgotten the sound. I’d tried to forget, anyway.
And at the end of the letter, dad's final cruel joke slaps me in the face.
I fold the paper and sit with my demons, memories of being lonely, a lost boy begging for his parents. And I consider burning my childhood home to the ground. I would drive over there right now if I didn’t know my mother is in that house.
The weight of everything crushes down on me, and I feel like I'm drowning.
I stare at the letter in my hand, the paper shaking as I try to steady my breathing. My father died still hating me with every fiber of his being. His last letter is a lesson. A lesson I don’t need that he’s not qualified to teach.
Unfolding the paper again, I stare at the handwriting until the words on the page blur together. Tears sting in my eyes as I try to come to terms with what he’s said to me. And, of course, he’d say all of this after he’s dead, and I can’t even respond.
Or maybe I can, but he won’t hear it from where he’s looking up at me.
I stand up and begin to pace around the room again as memories crowd back in, nights spent crying, wondering why I’m unlovable, finding strength deep within myself as I came to terms with my parents not loving me. The anger and pain that I've kept bottled up for years are too much to bear.
My phone rings again, and again, I ignore my mother’s call. I fully expect her to show up at my door, but I’ll ignore her there, too, if she does.
My phone rings again and this time, I see it’s Lila.
When I don’t answer, a text notification comes through. Are you okay? I’m worried about you.
I want to tell her the truth. But all I can feel is the pain and betrayal that my father left me with.
“Leave me alone,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
I sit in the dark, the only light coming from the moon shining through the window. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, but I ignore it, just like I've been ignoring it all evening.
How could he do this to me? I run a hand through my hair, feeling the frustration and anger building inside me. I felt better when I thought he’d left me nothing. His words are somehow worse than nothing.
