I kept thinking about his father.
About a little boy knocking on a closed door.
And an unfinished airplane.
I called Jeremy’s mother the next morning.
“Can I ask you something about his dad?”
She went quiet.
I told her what Jeremy had said.
Then I mentioned the airplane.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Her voice cracked.
“Jeremy still has it?”
“Yes.”
“His father finished that airplane.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“After Jeremy stopped knocking, he finished it himself. He put it back in the box with Jeremy’s childhood things.”
“But Jeremy thinks it’s unfinished.”
“He never took it out of the towel his father wrapped it in. When he moved out, he took the whole box without opening it.”
I remembered the towel.
The way Jeremy wouldn’t let anyone touch it.
“His father asked about him every Saturday,” she said.
“Even after Jeremy stopped knocking.”
Her voice trembled.
“After the accident, he fell into a terrible depression. He was ashamed of needing help. He thought Jeremy would be better off without him.”
My eyes filled.
“And when Jeremy stopped coming, he thought his son didn’t want him anymore.”
“Did you tell Jeremy?”
“I told him his father loved him. Jeremy said I was making excuses. After his father died, he wouldn’t talk about those years.”
She began crying.
“I should’ve told him about those Saturdays anyway.”
I looked toward our bedroom.
“There’s something carved underneath the airplane,” she said.
I found the towel.
Unwrapped it.
The little plane had two finished wings.
Smooth edges.
A polished wooden tail.
I turned it over.
Four words.
“FOR JEREMY. ALWAYS DAD.”
I sat on the floor and cried.
That afternoon, I carried the airplane when we visited Jeremy.
He smiled at the stroller.
Then saw what I was holding.
“Why did you bring that?”
“Your father finished it.”
His smile vanished.
“No.”
“After you stopped knocking.”
He shook his head.
I placed the airplane in his hands.
“Mom said he asked about you every Saturday.”
Jeremy stared.
“Even after you stopped coming.”
“What?”
“He thought you didn’t want to see him anymore.”
Jeremy looked down.
I turned the airplane over.
He read the words.
Once.
Twice.
Then pressed it to his chest.
For a long time, he couldn’t speak.
Finally, he whispered, “I spent my whole life thinking he didn’t want me.”
His fingers tightened around the wings.
“And he thought I didn’t want him.”
“He loved you,” I said. “But he hurt you too.”
Jeremy nodded.
“He should’ve opened that door.”
“Yes.”
He looked at our daughters.
“And I should’ve told you.”
“Yes.”
“I almost did the same thing to them.”
I took his hand.
“Then don’t.”
He looked at the airplane.
Then at his girls.
“I won’t.”
Recovery wasn’t instant.
There were appointments.
Painful exercises.
Days when he needed help.
And conversations neither of us could avoid anymore.
But Jeremy stopped hiding.
He came home in his wheelchair.
We took the photograph we’d imagined for months.
Both daughters in his arms.
Their matching outfits, now a little tight.
His wheelchair visible.
The wooden airplane on the table beside him.
That night, one baby woke crying.
Before I could get up, Jeremy rolled beside her crib.
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
He started singing.
She quieted.
I stood in the doorway.
I remembered the airport.
Three balloons.
Two babies.
A man who never came through the doors.
Now I was watching him sing our daughter back to sleep.
For nine months, he’d worried they’d know his voice before his face.
Now his voice helped them feel safe.
And this time, when his daughter needed him, her father was there.
Enjoyed the read? Here is another story you will love: I thought my husband’s ex-wife stealing my seat at his 50th birthday dinner was the worst betrayal of the night. Then I discovered the cake his mother had ordered for her.
