“…show you,” my husband said, and he pressed play. The camera panned across table nine. Next to the man in the gray suit sat my father. The man who raised me. The man who taught me to drive and walked me down the aisle forty minutes earlier. And the two of them were talking. Laughing. My father had his hand on the stranger’s shoulder.
I couldn’t breathe. My husband paused it again. “His name is Thomas Weller,” he said gently. “You know that. He’s your biological father. He left when you were two, and your mother never forgave him, and you decided a long time ago you never wanted to see his face.” He set down his glass. “He wrote to me a month before the wedding. He just wanted to see you get married from the back of the room.”
“So you invited him,” I whispered. My husband shook his head. “Your dad did. I asked him what to do. He said, ‘A man who wants to see his daughter married is allowed to see it. Put him with me.’”
I stared at the screen. My father, my real father, sitting beside the man who left, pouring him a glass of champagne. “They’ve had lunch every month for eleven years,” my husband said. “Your dad didn’t want to tell you until you were ready. Thomas made him promise.”
“Then why now?” I asked. My husband took my hand. “Because Thomas is in hospice. Your dad called this morning. He asked if I’d show you the video before it was too late. He said he’d drive you there himself if you want to go.”
I watched the video three more times. Then I called my father. He picked up on the first ring. “I’m outside,” he said. “I’ve been parked here an hour.” We drove to the hospice together. Thomas couldn’t talk anymore, but he opened his eyes when I came in. My dad stood at the foot of the bed with his hand on my shoulder. And for the first and last time in my life, I sat between both of my fathers, and I let one of them say goodbye.
