My Late Dad Left Me His Secret Apartment in His Will – When I Got There, I Went Pale
After his death, Emily’s father offers her a mystery key to “the place I kept closest to my heart.” She opens a downtown apartment expecting debts, secrets, or perhaps a secret second life, and is shocked by what she discovers.
The edges of the brass key were smoothed by hands other than mine, and it felt strange in my hand.
I kept turning the lawyer’s office window as the rain pounded on it, trying to process what I had just heard.
Up until a few minutes ago, the reading of Dad’s will had been entirely typical. His only remaining possessions were a few assets and some savings, which he split among his sister, Mom, and me.
When he reached the finish, Mr. Peterson scowled.
He seemed perplexed as he said, “There’s one last line,” “It says, ‘For my daughter — the key to the place I kept closest to my heart.'”
Then he produced the key and handed it to me. An address was revealed on a slip of paper that was attached to the end.
I looked to Mom in the hopes that she would understand why this key had been opened.
However, Mom appeared as perplexed as I did.
My chest began to churn with curiosity and uneasiness. Why did no one else know about Dad’s second property?
For all these years, what had he been concealing? A mistress hidden away in an apartment in the heart of the city? A habit of gambling? Hidden debts accumulating in a place I never would have imagined?
Even though the lawyer’s office was only 20 minutes away, the drive downtown took an eternity.
I parked three streets from the address because, to be honest, I wanted the walk to get my nerves up, and my windshield wipers whined over the drizzle.
I couldn’t help but remember all the evenings when Dad had claimed to be working late.
What if, all along, he had been leading a double life?
It was a fine, contemporary building, and not at all what Dad usually liked. As we passed the building, he would have described it as ugly. The scent of mild cigarette smoke and old varnish seemed baked into the walls as I ascended the short stairway. The weight of each step increased.
I even practiced my response in case the door was answered by an unidentified woman.
Would I be upset? Are you hurt? Would I turn around and walk away, or would I insist on explanations?
The door creaked open on oil-needed hinges, and the latch clicked readily. I entered and stopped.
I was standing in a rainbow of hues rather than the bachelor pad or secret office I had been anticipating.
Fluffy white clouds that appeared to be floating across a summer sky had been hand-painted on turquoise walls.
The beautiful hardwood flooring were strewn with beanbags in every possible color.
One wall was lined with bookshelves filled with picture books whose spines formed their own rainbow.
And there was a real miniature slide that descended into a hole full with foam blocks, fastened to the floor in the corner.
However, my uneasiness turned into something more akin to dread rather than relief. Why would my father have a playground for kids tucked away in the heart of the city?
My thoughts jumped to the most sinister scenario I could think of.
Was there another family he had? Somewhere, a hidden child? Did they use this as a playroom?
With my sneakers squeaking on the glossy wood, I stepped further into the room. Perhaps it was stale cookies or Play-Doh, but there was a subtle vanilla smell in the air.
Everything was liked but not quite arranged, tidy but lived in.
I became aware of the refrigerator in the tiny kitchenette at that point. It had a butterfly-shaped magnet attached to it with a drawing. Below, in unsteady characters, is a stick figure with a goofy smile and wild crayon hair: “Mr. Dan.”
The name of my father.
My stomach fell to the ground. However, I heard a gentle knock at the front door and the mechanical turn of the doorknob before panic took over.
The keys belonged to someone else.
With my hand hovering over the emergency dial, I clutched my phone, ready for whatever encounter I’d been dreading ever since I saw the key.
A woman in her 40s with gentle eyes and laugh lines was standing with a grocery bag balanced on her hip as the door opened. With excited smiles, three tiny children clung to her legs like koalas.
“Who are you?” Louder than I had meant to, I blurted out. “And why do you have keys to my father’s… apartment?”
The woman blinked, startled, and then her features became familiar.
“You must be Samantha, my dear! He mentioned you sporadically, but not often. He was a very private individual.
Squealing with joy, the kids had already flung themselves into the beanbags and fell past us both.
The room immediately filled with laughter and the sound of tiny feet running across the floor as the oldest, who was perhaps five years old, headed straight for the slide.
Something sharper and more demanding was emerging from my bewilderment.
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand what this place is or why you’re here.”
She put the items down and pointed to the bustling room surrounding us. “Your father initiated this. For single mothers who cannot afford daycare, it is a safe haven.
In addition to purchasing all the toys and paying the rent, he also recruited trained volunteers to assist with daytime child care.
However, he was adamant that no one recognize him. ‘I’m not the one who deserves appreciation here,’ he repeated. “The mothers do.”
The words struck me like a blow to the body. This subtle, covert kindness clashed with the picture of the guy I believed to be my father, the remote figure who had brought me up with more discipline than warmth.
“He did this?” My voice was not as loud as I had intended.
“For three years.” She gave a nod.
“By the way, my name is Sarah. That picture on the fridge was drawn by Tommy, my youngest. Every Tuesday night, your dad would tell stories while seated in the blue beanbag.
“The problem is that the lease and all of the funding were in his name,” she said after a moment of hesitation as her demeanor turned worried.
Without him. She looked across at the kids, who were now using the foam blocks to construct some kind of complex fort. “Without him, this place has to close.”
Choice was like a lead blanket pressing down on my shoulders.
I might let this legacy fade away, act as though I had never discovered it, and return to my life and my recollections of a decent but unwarm father.
Alternatively, I might enter the shadow of a man I was just now starting to fully comprehend.
With gap-toothed delight, a young child with curly hair came over and placed a plastic dinosaur in my lap.
He stumbled, “Tank you,” and then walked back to his game.
My father’s memories came flooding back to me like old photos.
He would frequently pause to talk to grocery store employees and inquire about their families. On our fishing excursions, he would bring extra sandwiches “just in case we met someone hungry.” When their parents weren’t there, he would give the kids quarters at the arcade.
How could I have missed it? How could I have entirely missed the magnitude of what he offered to others because I had been so preoccupied with what he didn’t give me?
Sarah was on her knees next to my beanbag. “I don’t mean to put undue pressure on you, but this facility is essential to 12 families. While their mothers work two jobs to make ends meet, nearly twenty-five children need a safe place to go.
I surveyed the space once more, viewing it in a different light.
It was more than a playroom.
It was made of foam blocks and used books, and it was hope painted in turquoise. In the most surprising way, my father’s heart revealed itself.
Before I could stop them, tears began to pour down my cheeks.
I muttered, “I’ll keep it going,” then cleared my voice to speak more loudly. “I want this establishment to remain open. In his honor. as well as mine.”
The children’s pure and contagious joy caused them to cheer without knowing why. Sarah, whose eyes were full of unshed tears, clasped my shoulder.
I felt Dad at my side for the first time since he passed away. Calm, proud, and brimming with a love far greater than I could have ever dreamed.
It’s the kind of love that doesn’t make an announcement or ask for praise. The kind of person that simply shows up every day to help those in need and make the world a bit kinder.
Grinning at the young boy who had handed me the toy dinosaur, I scooped it up.
Perhaps my knowledge of my father was incomplete. However, I was beginning to realize the most crucial fact: his heart had been sufficiently large. Simply put, I had been searching in the wrong areas.
