Chapter 10 - Dad’s Last MessageThat night, Mom asked for Dad’s Bible.

I brought it to her in the living room, along with tea she barely touched. The house was quiet except for rain tapping against the windows.

Mom opened the Bible carefully.

The forged documents had been removed and copied for evidence. Without them, the book looked like itself again.

She turned pages slowly, stopping at a section near the back where Dad had tucked photographs, funeral programs, and handwritten notes.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” she said.

I sat beside her.

“Okay.”

“Your father left you a message.”

My chest tightened.

“What?”

“He recorded it before he died. On that same little recorder.”

I stared at her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her eyes filled.

“Because after he died, you were drowning. Melissa said hearing his voice would make it worse. She said I was selfish to even consider giving it to you.”

I closed my eyes.

Another theft.

Not money.

Not medicine.

Grief.

Melissa had stolen my father’s last words from me.

Mom took the recorder from the side table.

“There was an older file. Before the others.”

She pressed buttons with shaking fingers.

Then Dad’s voice filled the room.

Weak.

Raspy.

Still Dad.

“Danny boy, if you’re hearing this, your mother finally got brave enough to play it.”

I covered my mouth.

Mom began crying immediately.

Dad chuckled softly on the recording, then coughed.

“I don’t have much wisdom left. Cancer eats that too, I guess. But I need you to hear this. Your mother is stronger than she looks, but she will never ask for what she needs. You come from two stubborn people, son. One loud, one quiet.”

A broken laugh escaped me.

Dad continued.

“When I’m gone, don’t let grief make strangers out of you. Take care of her. Not because she’s weak. Because she spent her whole life taking care of us.”

Mom leaned against me.

“And take care of your marriage too,” Dad said. “But remember this. A good wife will never ask you to prove love by abandoning someone else you love.”

I stopped breathing.

Mom gripped my hand.

Dad’s voice softened.

“If anyone ever makes you choose between duty and decency, choose decency. Duty without decency becomes pride. And pride can make a man cruel without him noticing.”

The recording crackled.

“I love you, son. Tell your mother I know she watered down my coffee the last month. I drank it anyway.”

Mom sobbed and laughed at the same time.

“I love you both.”

The file ended.

Rain kept tapping the windows.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

Then I said, “He knew.”

Mom wiped her cheeks.

“He worried Melissa didn’t like sharing you.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He tried once. You got defensive.”

I remembered.

A barbecue. Dad pulling me aside. Saying marriage should make a man bigger, not smaller. I had snapped that he didn’t understand Melissa.

He never brought it up again.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Mom touched my cheek.

“You loved your wife. Love makes people hopeful.”

“No. Love made me lazy.”

She shook her head.

“Shame won’t help us heal.”

I looked at the recorder.

“I wish he were here.”

“He is,” Mom said softly. “Just not the way we wanted.”

The next morning, I drove to Dad’s grave alone.

I had not visited in four months. Melissa always said cemeteries made me depressed, and she would schedule brunch or errands whenever I planned to go.

This time, I brought coffee.

Real coffee.

I sat on the wet grass and told him everything.

I told him I failed.

I told him Mom survived anyway.

I told him about the recordings, the medication, the forged documents, the courtroom.

Then I played his message back to him.

It was foolish, maybe.

But when his own voice said, “A good wife will never ask you to prove love by abandoning someone else you love,” I finally cried like the son I had not allowed myself to be.

Before leaving, I made him a promise.

Not dramatic.

Not loud.

Just true.

“I’ll bring Mom home to herself.”

When I returned, there was a car in the driveway I did not recognize.

A black sedan.

Rachel stood on the porch.

Her face was pale. Her eyes were red.

In her hands was a folder.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

I stepped out of the truck slowly.

“What now?”

She looked past me toward the house.

“It’s about Melissa.”

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Her voice cracked.

“And your father’s watch.”