Two years ago, after my mother died, I began volunteering at a small hospice, where I met Nathan.
He was fifty-nine. While most patients had family visiting them, Nathan had no one.
So I started stopping by. Before long, I became the person he waited for.
I brought him coffee, stayed after my shifts, 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 raised me alone, and my father left before I was born. I didn’t even know his name.
I should have thought Nathan’s request was strange. Instead, my heart broke for him. “Well then, hello, Dad,” I said with a smile. Nathan 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.
Whenever strangers asked, he smiled. “This is my daughter.” Most people would never understand how I felt. But I was happier than I’d been in years because I finally had someone who cared about me.
Last week, Nathan passed away peacefully in his sleep. The day after his funeral, his lawyer found me.
“You walked STRAIGHT INTO HIS TRAP,” he said without even greeting me. I froze.
Then he placed a box into my trembling hands. “Nathan chose that hospice because YOU volunteered there. He searched for you for TWENTY YEARS—but made me promise to reveal the truth only after his death. You’d better sit down.”
(The shocking contents of the box are about to be revealed! Click “Next Page” to continue reading…)
