I called him and asked which area he was working in. I realized I was only sixty kilometers away, so I asked him to have lunch together. I had not seen him since our last work meeting, two months earlier.
I arrived at his hotel and booked a room for the night. I wanted to stay there. I needed his presence, his jokes, those half‑sentences of his that said more than a full speech. He was my father.
Sitting at the table, we ordered the dish of the day. He had never lost his appetite — either for food or for women’s asses, his true passion. Between one course and the next, he laughed watching the new waitress trying to impress the management so she would not lose her job.
We spent the afternoon walking along the seafront. I realized I was doing something children rarely notice I was enjoying the moment with my father. I was spending time with him — father, colleague, friend, accomplice, and cognitive trickster.
Back at the hotel, he asked me what I was doing that evening. “Well, naturally, in a place like this I should have a friend around. I will call her and we will go out together.”
He looked straight into my eyes and said, “And what do I do, stay here alone?” He was my father.
I answered, “Give me some time, I’ll see if I can find another friend for you, and we’ll go out as four.” He nodded and smiled quietly. He knew that a promise always came before a signature on a contract. It was law.
I organized everything, and my friend brought her younger sister. We were practically playing as a family. But I told my father not to reveal who he was — he had to introduce himself only as my colleague and friend. He agreed, at least with intention.
We went to a pub to drink beer and eat hot dogs. He led the conversation, as always. And one of the two women, guided by instinct, said: “You two are identical. I do not believe you are just colleagues.”
That was the moment he said: “Yes, it is true, miss. I am his father.” And everyone burst out laughing.
The night was ending. When we were ready to leave, I was saying goodbye to him and he asked: “So what, you’re leaving me alone?”
The girls understood immediately — more than I did — and withdrew together. I went back to the hotel with my father, laughing all night.
His only recommendation was not to tell my mother. But he, genuine and in love, told her immediately. She smiled, and behind that silent look she made me understand that I was nothing but a real son of a bitch.
A lesson that lasts a lifetime:
Never lie — especially to women. If you really must, use half‑truths. But if you are profoundly good, or want to try, say nothing at all and smile. Empathy always fills the silence.
Nando
“I realized we were the same only after he had returned to the Father’s house — no longer here on earth.”