When my 75-year-old father insisted we drive 1,300 miles to a mysterious coastal town for his birthday, I thought it was another of his whims.
But his cryptic excitement hid something deeper: an old pact, an unknown destination, and the kind of secrets that could change how I saw him forever.
My dad and I always had a great bond. When I was younger, we’d spend hours walking through the woods near our home, and he often whisked the family off on sudden weekend camping trips.
He was 75 now, his wiry frame a little thinner, his gait a little slower, but you’d never guess it when he got talking.
It didn’t matter if the subject was last night’s game, some documentary he caught, or one of the endless stories from his youth — I was always his favorite audience, and I didn’t mind being cast in the role.
Every Saturday, I’d visit him at the nursing home, where his mind seemed determined to outrun his aging body.
That day wasn’t supposed to be any different, but things ended up taking a strange turn.
I had my coffee, Dad had his stories, and the afternoon sunlight filtered lazily through the room’s sheer curtains.
Then Dad leaned forward, his eyes alive with that mischievous spark I knew so well.
“Fill up your tank,” he said, voice firm and a little conspiratorial. “We’ve got a long journey ahead.”
I blinked, caught off guard.
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“We’re going on a road trip, son,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“There’s a coastal town I need to visit. I’ve got a very important meeting there.”
“A meeting?” I tried not to laugh.
“Dad, you’re retired.
You’re 75. What kind of meeting could you possibly have?”
He waved me off, annoyed by my skepticism. “You’ll find out soon enough.
Just trust me on this one, okay?
We have to be there on my birthday.”
There was something in his voice that made me pause: a seriousness I wasn’t used to.
I studied him, searching for a tell that this was just one of his whims. But there was no trace of his usual playfulness.
He meant it.
“Alright,” I said slowly, the corner of my mouth twitching into a half-smile. “But if this turns out to be some elaborate excuse to get me to take you fishing, I swear to God…”
“Fishing?” He scoffed, slapping the armrest of his chair.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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