The story of a son who could never bring himself to call his biological father "Dad."

#nana56b


Lines from the story

I lost my father to lung cancer when I was 18.

When I was 15, my current parents told me, “You
have a real father.”

I have two sisters. One is eight years older than
me, and the other is seven years older.

Apparently, while raising two children, my mother
grew tired of my father, who was getting hooked
on gambling, and had an affair.

So, I was the child born from that affair.

My father apparently wanted a son badly and told
her to have the baby, even if it wasn't his.

After that, I gradually drifted apart from my
family.

In my senior year of high school, my mother told
me my father was hospitalized.



I learned his room number and condition, but I
didn't know what kind of face to make when I went
to see him.

While I was agonizing over it, my girlfriend gave
me a push,
and I managed to face him.

I was overcome with the most intense nervousness
imaginable.

The moment we met, he said, “Isn't this Satoshi?”
I was shocked. Could he really recognize me after
18 years?

That day, I ended up using formal language the
entire time, only calling him Mr. Hayashi. I don't
remember a single thing we talked about.



But after meeting a few more times, the formal
language faded, and we started laughing together.

Still, I couldn't call him “Dad.”

I spent my days going to the hospital after school,
then heading to my part-time job...

Around winter, his condition worsened.

It stabilized quickly, but after that, I could see
his body wasting away before my eyes.

Amidst all this, I tried so many times to call him
“Dad,” but I couldn't do it.

Even though I practiced calling him countless times
before entering the hospital room...

And then, while I was away at a driver's license
training camp, he passed away suddenly.



I hadn't done a single thing a son should do. I
hadn't even called him Dad.

I was so filled with regret, I couldn't stop crying
for days.

After the wake, when things had settled, my mother
brought out some photos.

Every single one showed only me.

Sports festivals, club activities, band practice...
but not a single one had me looking at the camera.

Apparently, Dad always came to every event.

So that's why, even though it was our first meeting,
he knew right away it was me...



Among them, there was just one photo of the two of
us together.

On the back, it said, “First Present.”

It was a picture of me at one year old, being held
by Dad, handing him wildflowers.

And they'd even pressed it like a flower.

As I placed it in the coffin, I looked at Dad's
face.

Then, tears spilled from my eyes again.

That was the first time I cried out, “Dad.”