I Grew Up in Foster Care Believing My Father Had Vanished — Then a Lawyer Told Me He Was Rich, Dying, and Asking for Seven Days With Me

I frowned. "How would you even know that?"

"Your mother hated them."

"So?"

His mouth twitched. "So did you. Even mashed up into baby food."

I hated hearing that story. Mostly because some part of me wanted another one right after it.

On the third day, he told me my mother used to tap one finger against her glass whenever she got angry. I looked down — my own index finger was already tapping against the arm of my chair.

Graham smiled. I stopped immediately.

"Don't look pleased."

"I'm not, dear."

"You are."

He sighed. "Maybe a little."

We spent hours that day talking about her — how badly she sang doing the dishes, the time she drove forty miles back to a gas station because she'd forgotten her purse, how she used to double-knot my shoes because I always managed to kick them loose. For years my mother had existed in my memory only in fragments. Graham handed me pieces I'd never had before.

On the fourth day, I finally asked the question I'd been circling since I walked in.

"Why did you leave me there?"

Graham stared at the window a long time. Then: "Because I was a coward."

I waited.

"After Diane died, I remarried. It was new. Fragile."

"So?"

"I told myself foster care would only be temporary."

I looked away, fingers curling.

"I told myself professionals could handle what you'd been through better than I could."

"That's convenient."

"Yes," he said quietly. "I chose the easier life."

The honesty hurt worse than an excuse would have. "I thought I'd fix it later."

"Did later ever come?"

He looked at me. "Every year I waited made coming back harder. Then you aged out, moved on, and I lost track of you completely. By the time I finally started looking, you were already gone."

I laughed, bitter. "Poor you. I didn't die."

"Renee—"

I stepped back. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

By the fifth day, I was helping adjust his pillows. Vivian noticed. She always seemed to be nearby, watching.

On the sixth afternoon, she caught me alone in the hallway.

"You've been here six days."

I looked at her. "Congratulations. You can count."

She drummed her fingers against her hip. "Dad asks for you every time he wakes up."

"That's not my fault."

"Really? You show up out of nowhere and suddenly you're the only one who matters?"

I stared at her. She pressed a finger against my collarbone.

"What exactly are you expecting when he dies?"

"The same thing I've gotten from him my entire life."

Her expression hardened. "Which is?"

"Nothing."

I walked past her.

That evening Graham was worse. Rain tapped softly against the windows while I sat beside him. He reached for me. This time, when he pulled me closer, I let him.

"I know you hate me," he whispered.

"Sometimes."

A weak smile touched his mouth. "Fair."

Then his expression collapsed. "Soon you'll understand everything."

I pulled back. "What does that mean?"

His eyes filled. "Graham?"

He tried to speak. Nothing came out. I called for the nurse.