He stood there in his battered leather vest, smudged with dirt and grease, surrounded by polished faces in suits and gowns. Doctors, professors, the elite of Harvard—all staring at him with confusion, some with disgust. In his trembling hands, he held a small wooden box, a gift he’d carried across hundreds of miles. And for the first time in ten years, I came face-to-face with the man I’d spent my whole life pretending was dead—my father.
“Please, Katie… just five minutes,” he said quietly, his voice cracked and raw.
Security stepped in, grabbing his arms. He didn’t fight back. He just looked at me with a pain that cut deeper than any words ever could. “I drove two hundred miles,” he whispered. “I just wanted to see you graduate. Just once.”
But I couldn’t look at him. My back turned on instinct. My red gown brushed past him as I walked away—away from the life I came from, the man I had buried in stories I told to survive.
I’d told everyone at Harvard that my father was gone. That he’d died when I was young. It was easier that way—easier than admitting he was alive somewhere in Kansas, part of a motorcycle club, covered in oil and regret. My “trust fund” wasn’t real; my “family scholarship” was just a lie I’d built to hide the truth.
That night, after the celebration, I found a small box left outside my dorm. It was unwrapped, scratched, and simple—just like him. Inside was an old leather-bound journal tied with a string.
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