Nights in Rodanthe - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,59

to do this in person, but due to my injuries, I couldn’t leave just yet. So here I am, struggling for words, and wondering if anything I write will mean anything at all.

I’m sorry that I didn’t call, but then, I decided that it wasn’t going to be any easier to hear what I have to say. I’m still trying to make sense of it myself, and that’s part of the reason I’m writing.

I know my father told you about me, but I think it’s important that you know our history from my perspective. My hope is that it’ll give you a good idea of the man who loved you.

You have to understand that when I was growing up, I didn’t have a father. Yes, he lived in the house; yes, he provided for my mom and me; but he was never around, unless it was to reprimand me about the B I’d received on a report card. I remember that when I was a kid, my school had a science fair that I participated in every year, and from kindergarten through eighth grade, my father never made it once. He never took me to a baseball game, or played catch in the yard, or even went with me on a bike ride. He mentioned that he’d told you some of this, but believe me when I tell you that it was worse than he probably made it seem. When I left for Ecuador, I honestly remember hoping that I’d never see him again.

Then, of all things, he decided to come here, to be with me. You have to understand that deep down, there’d always been an arrogance about my father that I’d grown to detest, and I figured he was coming down because of that. I could imagine him suddenly trying to act like a father, dishing out advice that I didn’t need or want. Or reorganizing the clinic to make it more efficient, or coming up with brilliant ideas to make the place more livable for us. Or even calling in some debts owed to him over the years to bring a whole crew of young volunteer physicians to work at the clinic, all the while making sure the entire press corps back home knew exactly who was responsible for all the good deeds. My father had always loved to see his name in print, and he was acutely aware of what good publicity could do for him and his practice. By the time he arrived, I was actually thinking of packing my bags and going home, leaving him behind. I had a dozen responses lined up for just about anything I thought he might say. Apology? A little late for that. Good to see you? Wish I could say the same. I think we should talk? I don’t think that would be a good idea. Instead, all he said was, “Hey,” and when he saw my expression, he simply nodded and walked away. That was our only contact during the first week he was there.

It didn’t get much better right away. For months, I kept expecting him to revert to his old ways, and I watched for it, ready to call him on it. But he never did. He never complained about the work or the conditions, he offered suggestions only when asked directly, and though he never took credit for it, the director finally admitted that my father had been the one who supplied the new medicines and equipment we’d desperately needed, though he’d insisted that his gift remain anonymous.

What I think I most appreciated was that he didn’t pretend we were something we weren’t. For months, we weren’t friends and I didn’t regard him as a father, yet he never tried to change my mind about those things. He didn’t pressure me in any way, and I think that’s when I began to let my guard down about him.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that my father had changed, and little by little, I began to think there was something about him that was worth a second chance. And though I know he’d made some changes before he met you, you were the main reason he became the person he did. Before he met you, he was trying to find something. After you came along, he’d already found it.

My father talked about you all the time, and I can only imagine how many letters he must have sent you. He loved you, but