My dad has always been the adventurous type, and I’ve inherited that spirit from him. It’s a trait that has always bonded us. A week before his birthday, I visited him at the nursing home, and he excitedly said, “Fill up your tank—we’ve got a long journey ahead!” His words puzzled me, especially when he mentioned a “very important meeting.” When I pressed for details, he simply replied, “You’ll find out soon enough!”
Embracing his adventurous nature, I decided to go along with his mysterious plan. Three days before his birthday, we set off on the road, heading toward a coastal town he had pointed out on a map.
After a couple of exhausting days of driving, we finally arrived at our destination. Dad seemed visibly anxious as we waited on an empty beach, the anticipation hanging in the air. Just when I thought we might be waiting forever, a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, approached us from behind.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, breaking the silence.
My dad blinked in surprise. “Do I know you?”
“No, but my grandfather does.”
Her name was Ellie, and her story began to unfold like a thread I hadn’t realized had been pulled. Ellie explained that her grandfather was the person my dad had come to meet. Sixty years ago, they had been Boy Scouts together and made a pact to reunite on this very beach for my dad’s 75th birthday, no matter the circumstances.
“But he’s sick,” Ellie said softly, her voice tinged with regret. “He’s blind now and bedridden. He couldn’t make the trip himself, but he made me promise to come in his place. And to give you this. Happy Birthday.”
She handed my dad a small, gift-wrapped box.
As he opened it slowly, a strangled laugh escaped him when he saw what was inside—a baseball card in pristine condition, encased in a plastic sleeve.
“This is the same card,” he said, disbelief thick in his voice. “The one I begged him to give me, but he wouldn’t.”
Ellie nodded. “He’s kept it all these years. It was his way of remembering you.”
Tears filled my dad’s eyes as he processed the moment. “I have to see him,” he said, his voice breaking. “I need to thank him.”
Ellie hesitated. “It’s a five-hour drive, and he’s… he’s not doing well. I don’t know if—”
“We’re going,” Dad interrupted, his tone resolute. “Right now.”
The drive to Ellie’s grandfather’s house was tense. Dad was restless, muttering under his breath, as if willing time to move faster. I understood how much this meant to him, and I was determined not to let him down.
When we finally arrived, the house was eerily quiet. Ellie’s mother greeted us at the door, her face pale and somber.
“He passed away this morning,” she said gently. “Just after you left, Ellie.”
My dad staggered back, his breath hitching as he shook his head in disbelief. “No,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “No, we made a promise.”
I had never seen him so devastated. This was the man who had always been my rock, my hero, and now he was crumbling before me. I knelt beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Dad,” I said softly. “The promise was honored. He sent Ellie and the card. He remembered you.”
He looked at me, his eyes red and raw. “But I didn’t get to see him. I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
I didn’t have the right words to ease his pain, but I stayed by his side, my hand steady on his shoulder as waves of sorrow washed over him.
In that moment, I realized that some promises don’t require witnesses to hold significance. Perhaps this was one of those promises, a testament to the enduring bonds of friendship and memory.