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My father pass.ed away alone on the side of Highway 49 last week, sitting against his broken-down Harley in 103-degree heat, waiting for the daughter who was “too busy” to answer his calls. They said it was due to heart attack as he’d been there for hours, his phone showing seventeen missed calls during the time, all ignored because I was tired of hearing about his “biker nonsense” and assumed he just wanted money for motorcycle parts again. For thirty years, I’d been telling everyone my father was a d3adbeat who chose his motorcycle club over his family, a man who missed my college graduation for a stupid rally, who showed up to my wedding reception smelling like motor oil with his trashy biker friends in tow. What I never told anyone was that he’d called me the morning he d!ed, leaving a voicemail I deleted without listening, too angry about an argument we’d had months earlier when he refused to sell his “precious” Harley to help pay for my kitchen renovation. Now I’m standing in his garage, surrounded by photo albums I never knew existed—pictures of him teaching me to ride a bicycle, cheering at my softball games, working overnight shifts at the factory to pay for my Catholic school tuition. Page after page showed a man I’d somehow forgotten, or maybe never let myself see, because I was too consumed with anger that he wasn’t the father I thought I deserved. The other bikers from his club told me he talked about me constantly, carried my baby picture in his wallet until it fell apart, had newspaper clippings of every achievement I’d ever had carefully preserved in plastic sleeves. They said he’d been trying to reach me that last week because the doctor had given him six months—pancreatic can:cer, already spread to his liver—and all he wanted was to take one last ride to the lake where he’d taught me to fish when I was seven, to sit with his daughter one more time before the can:cer took him. Instead, he d!ed alone, slumped against the bike I’d hated for so long, clutching a letter he’d written to me that began with “My darling daughter….. (Check out the comment to read full story)
— Uncle, it’s Mom’s birthday today… I want to buy some flowers, but I don’t have enough money… I bought a bouquet for the boy. And some time later, when I came to the grave, I saw this bouquet there When Pasha wasn’t even five yet, his world collapsed. Mom was gone. He stood in the corner of the room, frozen with incomprehension – what’s going on? Why is the house filled with strangers? Who are they? Why is everyone so quiet, somehow strange, speaking in whispers and hiding their eyes? The boy didn’t understand why no one was smiling. Why were they telling him: “Hold on, baby,” and hugging him, but doing it as if he had lost something important. But he simply didn’t see his mother. Father was somewhere far away all day. Never came up to him, never hugged him, never said a word. He just sat to the side, devastated and a stranger. Pasha approached the coffin and looked at his mother for a long time. She was completely different from usual – no warmth, no smile, no lullabies at night. Pale, cold, frozen. It was frightening. And the boy no longer dared to come closer. Without his mother, everything became different. Gray. Empty. Two years later, father married again. The new woman – Galina – did not become part of his world. Rather, she felt irritation towards him. She grumbled about everything, found fault, as if looking for an excuse to be angry. And father was silent. Did not stand up for him. Did not interfere. Every day Pasha felt the pain that he hid inside. The pain of loss. Longing. And with each day – more and more he wanted to return to the life where his mother was alive. Today was a special day – Mom’s birthday. In the morning Pasha woke up with one thought: he needed to go to her. To her grave. To bring flowers. White calla lilies – her favorite. He remembered how they were in her hands in old photographs, how they shone next to her smile. But where to get money? He decided to ask his father. – Dad, can I have some money? I really need it… Before he could explain, Galina ran out of the kitchen: – What is this?! Have you already started demanding it from your father?! Do you even understand how much work goes into a salary? Her father looked up and tried to stop her: – Gal, wait. He didn’t even have time to say why. Son, tell me what you need? – I want to buy flowers for my mother. White calla lilies. Today is her birthday… Galina snorted, crossing her arms over her chest: – Well, I never! Flowers! Money for them! Maybe we should take them to a restaurant? Take something from the flowerbed – you’ll have a bouquet! – They’re not there, – Pasha answered quietly but confidently. – They’re only sold in the store. The father looked thoughtfully at his son, then turned his gaze to his wife: – Gal, go make dinner. I’m hungry. The woman snorted with displeasure and disappeared into the kitchen. The father returned to the newspaper. And Pasha understood: she wouldn’t give him any money. Not another word was said. He quietly went into his room, took out an old piggy bank. He counted the coins. Not enough. But maybe that would be enough? Without wasting any time, he ran out of the house and ran to the flower shop. From afar he saw snow-white calla lilies in the window. So bright, almost fairy-tale-like. He stopped, holding his breath. And then he resolutely went inside. “What do you want?” the saleswoman asked unfriendly, looking at the boy appraisingly. “You’ve probably come to the wrong place. There are no toys or sweets here. Only flowers.” “I’m not just like that… I really want to buy. Calla lilies… How much is a bouquet?” The saleswoman named the price. Pasha took all his coins out of his pocket. But the amount was barely half enough. “Please…” he begged. “I can work it off! Come every day, help: clean, dust, wash the floors… Just lend me this bouquet…” “Are you even normal?” the woman snorted with obvious irritation. “Do you think I’m a millionaire to give away flowers here? Go away now! Or I’ll call the police – begging is not welcome here!” But Pasha wasn’t going to give in. He needed these flowers today. He started begging again: “I’ll give it all! I promise! I’ll earn as much as I need! Please understand…” “Oh, look at this artist!” the saleswoman screamed so loudly that passersby started turning around. “Where are your parents? Maybe it’s time to call social services?” What are you doing hanging around here alone? This is the last time I’m telling you – get out before I call! A man came up to the store. He happened to witness this scene. He entered the flower shop just as the woman was yelling at the upset child. This offended him – he couldn’t stand injustice, especially towards children. “Why are you yelling like that?” he asked the saleswoman sternly. “You’re yelling at him as if he stole something. But he’s just a boy.” “Who are you anyway?” the woman snapped. “If you don’t know what’s going on, don’t interfere. He almost stole the bouquet!” “Well, of course, ‘almost stole’,” the man raised his voice. “You attacked him yourself, like a hunter on prey! He needs help, and you’re threatening him. Have you completely lost your conscience? He turned to Pasha, who was standing in the corner, all huddled up and wiping tears from his cheeks. – Hi, my friend. My name is Yura. Tell me, why are you upset? You wanted to buy flowers, but you didn’t have enough money? Pasha sobbed, wiped his nose with his sleeve and said in a quiet, trembling voice: – I wanted to buy calla lilies… For my mother… She loved them very much… But three years ago she passed away… Today is her birthday… I wanted to go to the cemetery and bring her flowers… Yura felt his heart clench inside. The boy’s story touched him to the depths of his soul. He squatted down next to him… Full story in 1st comment 👇👇
