And then I saw it: a small medical file folded behind the ledger. The diagnosis matched the note—Degenerative Disc Disease. Severe Rheumatoid Arthritis. The pain he’d hidden, the warnings he’d ignored—they were all there, laid bare on paper.
My hands shook. The truth was undeniable. The “trust fund” that funded my education was built on his suffering. The “dead father” I’d invented had been alive all along, breaking himself for me.
“It’s not much. One bedroom. Close to the hospital where you said you’d do your residency. Paid in full. I’m proud of you, Katie. – Dad.”
I didn’t even change out of my gown. I just ran—clutching the ledger, the key, and the truth I could no longer hide.
He was there, just beyond campus, sitting by his old motorcycle. The same one from my childhood. His head was bowed, helmet beside him, the fading sunlight spilling over his shoulders.
“Dad!” I shouted, voice cracking.
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