**Part 3**
It rang four times before an older woman answered.
“Hello?”
I stared at Dad’s name carved beneath the blue seat.
“My name is Annie.” My voice nearly failed me. “I’m Gilbert’s daughter.”
There was a long silence.
Then the woman whispered, “Gilbert had a daughter?”
For a moment, I couldn’t answer.
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
The woman gave a shaky laugh.
“He never told us.”
“He didn’t tell me about you either.”
That silenced both of us.
Her name was Ruth. She had been fifteen when Dad arrived at the foster home.
She began asking about him carefully.
“Did he still cheat at cards?”
“Yes.”
“Did he still hate papaya?”
Apparently, he’d lied to me about liking it.
“Did he whistle when he was nervous?”
I looked at Mom.
She nodded.
“Every time.”
Ruth laughed.
These weren’t stories about some secret version of my father.
They were simply Dad.
“Why did you keep his chair?” I asked.
“Because it was Gilbert’s.”
“For fifty years?”
“People used it.”
She sounded surprised by the question.
“Kids sat in it. Somebody broke its leg once. We fixed it. But whenever anyone wanted to throw it out, Mom said, ‘No. That’s Gilbert’s chair.’”
I touched the worn blue backrest.
“Dad thought he’d stayed away too long.”
“Too long for what?”
“To come back.”
Ruth went silent.
Then she said, “Nobody told him that.”
Mom covered her mouth.
She leaned closer to my phone.
“Ruth?”
“Yes?”
“Were you angry with him?”
“Sometimes.”
Mom closed her eyes.
Ruth continued.
“I still would’ve picked him up at the airport.”
***
After the call, Mom and I sat beside the blue chair for a long time.
A week later, I took it to my apartment.
Mom objected immediately.
“Annie, that’s your father’s chair.”
“I know, Mom.”
I placed it at my kitchen table.
The following Sunday, Mom came over for coffee.
She stopped when she saw me sitting in it.
For a moment, I thought she’d ask me to get up.
She didn’t.
Instead, she sat across from me.
Dad’s faded photograph lay between us.
Mom turned it around and pointed to the woman beside the cooler.
“That’s the woman who raised him.”
I studied the tiny figure.
The blue chair shifted beneath me, tapping unevenly against the floor.
Mom glanced down.
“Still does that.”
“Yeah.”
She pushed the sugar bowl toward me.
Outside, Oregon rain streaked the window.
I stayed in Dad’s chair.
THE END
