I’d searched for my father before, but it wasn’t until my grandfather died that I finally found him. We last spoke on his birthday, a month before the funeral.
“Seventy-seven,” I shouted, aiming for his range.
“That’s about enough,” he said. We rambled on, and I lacked the wherewithal to know it would be our last conversation. I said goodbye, fully expecting there’d be another.
But his heart had other plans.
I traveled by train and settled into an empty compartment. The solitude suited me, but it wouldn’t last. After a few stops, a young couple walked in. They seemed poor by the looks of their clothes. Frayed cuffs, worn-down shoes. But I’m not one to decipher current fashion.
Sometimes, we can’t see the truth because it’s easier to believe something other than the truth. They looked poor. That was good enough for me.
“Where you headed?” I asked.
They looked at each other, but neither answered. We spent the next hour in silence. And then they were gone.
Soon after, I was joined by three men and kept all comments to myself. But before long, the same question I had asked the kids was asked to me: “Where are you going?”
“I’m going home,” I said. But the word home landed off center. I had strayed from the truth and felt a twinge. Not guilt, that was far too strong. But something. And it moved me enough to amend my answer. “I’m going to the place I grew up,” I corrected. “The place that used to be my home.”
“But home,” said one, “if defined as the place you grew up, would still apply.”
My home had changed locations many years ago. But with his words, it changed again.
“Yes,” I said. “I believe you’re right. It does apply. I’m going home.”
A few stops later, they rose in unison and filed out of the compartment. I spotted them on the platform, walking the same way—one behind the other.
I’m not sure when I started asking about my dad. My mom passed shortly after I was born, and this saddened me. But at least I knew what happened to her. An undecorated urn held her ashes. I knew exactly where she was. But my dad presented a different situation. Of him, I didn’t know much. Within a week of my birth, he was gone. My arrival marked my mom’s exit. And he resented me. Couldn’t possibly raise me. So he left.
“Where do you think he is?” I’d sometimes ask.
My grandfather always returned a gaze that hinted at deeper knowledge. Then he’d say, “Why do you care?”
“What was he like?”
“He was a good man.”
A good man wouldn’t have left.
The train eased into the station, and I walked to my grandfather’s house. I paused at the front door, memories gaining momentum, then stepped inside. And they came at me from all directions.
“Do you remember climbing that tree?” he asked during my last visit.
“I climbed that tree?”
“So high the branches bowed. I was sure you’d fall.”
“But I never fell,” I said.
“No, you never fell.”
After a while, I called on a neighbor.
“Nathan,” she exclaimed. Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s so good to see you.” She pulled me inside. “You’re all grown up. You used to come looking for candy.”
“Did I?” I asked.
“Yes. And I always gave you some.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever kind I had, you didn’t care.”
We spoke about my grandfather, but that’s not why I was there. I wanted to know about my dad.
Her eyes welled up again. “Before Nathaniel died,” she said, “he told me something.”
Nathaniel. My name shortened from his. An inheritance I never questioned.
“He knew you’d find me, and knew what you’d ask. He said there’s a letter in his desk. Said it’s from your father.” It was late when I left her house. I went to bed. I wasn’t ready for the letter. In the morning I dressed for the service, then found it.
Dear Nathan, If you’re reading this, I must be dead.
Those words should have moved me. But they didn’t. Not yet. If he waited until death to reveal himself, then perhaps he wasn’t worth knowing. I read on. And something seemed familiar. The loops. The slant. I’d seen them before. Birthday cards. Grocery lists. My grandfather’s handwriting. I skipped to the bottom.
I hope you can understand. And if not, at least forgive me.
I had found my father. And lost him again. All in the same moment. Sometimes, the truth isn’t hidden, but we choose to believe something else.
It was nearly time to leave, but everything had changed. I was no longer burying my grandfather, but the man who’d hidden my father from me. Someone I never knew when he was alive. And I wasn’t prepared to mourn his death. I left the letter on the table and gathered my things.
At the station, I boarded the next train. And confusion set in. I wasn’t sure if I was leaving home, or returning to it.
I’m still not sure.
But I did find my dad.
–
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Fabula Argentea, Flash Boulevard, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.
© 2025, Foster Trecost
Halfway Down the Stairs 