Chapter 90 Unexpected Visitor
Crew's POV,
The man showed up at the clinic on a Wednesday afternoon, asking for Harper.
I only knew about it because James texted me: There's a guy here asking for Harper. Says he's her father. She's with a client. Should I tell him to wait or...?
I stared at the text for a full minute.
Harper's father. The man who'd walked out when she was twelve. Who she hadn't spoken to in sixteen years. Who she'd mentioned exactly twice in all the time I'd known her—once to say he existed, once to say she'd prefer if he didn't.
I called James. "What does he look like?"
"Older guy. Maybe late fifties. Kind of rough around the edges. Says his name is Richard Sinclair. Showed me an old photo of Harper as a kid to prove he's her dad."
"Did Harper say anything? Does she know he's there?"
"She's in the middle of a session. I haven't told her yet. Thought I should check with you first."
I was at practice. Twenty minutes from the clinic, maybe fifteen if I drove like an asshole. "Don't tell her yet. I'm coming there. Don't let him leave, but don't let him near her either. Just... keep him in the waiting room."
"Got it."
I grabbed my gear and headed for the door. Marcus called after me—"We have film review in ten minutes"—but I ignored him. This was more important.
The drive took twelve minutes. I parked illegally and walked into the clinic to find a man sitting in the waiting area, looking uncomfortable in a worn flannel shirt and jeans that had seen better days. He had Harper's eyes. Same shape, same color. But where Harper's were guarded and intelligent, his looked tired and desperate.
"Richard Sinclair?" I said.
He stood up quickly. "Yeah. You must be Crew. I've seen you on TV. You're married to my daughter."
"Your daughter who you abandoned sixteen years ago."
"I didn't abandon her—"
"What would you call it?"
He sat back down, deflating. "Okay. Yeah. I abandoned her. I was a coward and I left. But I'm here now. I need to talk to her."
"Why? Why now? Why after sixteen years?"
Richard looked at his hands. They were shaking slightly. "Because I'm dying. Six months, maybe less. Liver cancer. Stage four. And I need to see her before I go."
The words hit like a punchline I should have seen coming but didn't.
"You're dying."
"Yeah."
"And you want to waltz back into Harper's life, drop that bomb, and what? Get forgiveness? Absolution? Make yourself feel better before you die?"
"I want to apologize. I want to tell her the truth about why I left. I want her to know that leaving her was the worst thing I ever did." He looked up at me. "And yeah, maybe I want forgiveness. Is that so wrong?"
"It's not about what you want. It's about what she needs."
The door to the treatment room opened. Harper walked out with her client—the marathon runner with IT band issues who'd been coming for weeks. They were laughing about something, Harper's professional smile in place, completely unaware that her father was sitting fifteen feet away.
She saw me first. Her smile faltered. "Crew? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"
Then she saw Richard.
Everything in her face shut down. The warmth, the openness, the smile—all of it gone in an instant. Replaced by something cold and closed that I'd never seen before.
"Harper—" Richard started.
"No." She turned to her client. "I'm so sorry, Andrea. Can you excuse me for a moment?" She waited until Andrea left, then turned to James. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I texted Crew. I didn't want to interrupt your session."
"Well consider it interrupted." She finally looked at Richard. "What are you doing here?"
"I needed to see you."
"You needed to see me sixteen years ago. You needed to see me when Mom was working three jobs to pay rent. You needed to see me when I graduated high school, when I got into college, when I got married. You weren't there for any of it. So what the hell are you doing here now?"
Richard stood up slowly. "I'm dying, Harper. Cancer. I have six months at most. I wanted to see you before—"
"No." Harper's voice was ice. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up dying and make me feel guilty for being angry. You made your choice sixteen years ago. You don't get to unmake it now because you're scared of dying alone."
"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty—"
"Then what are you trying to do? Apologize? Get forgiveness? Make yourself feel better about being a coward?" She was shaking now, voice rising. "I was twelve. I was twelve years old and you left without saying goodbye. Do you know what that did to me? Do you have any idea?"
"I know. I know I screwed up—"
"You didn't screw up. You abandoned your family. You chose to leave. And now you want me to what? Welcome you back? Forgive you? Make your death easier?"
Richard's eyes were wet. "I just want to explain. To tell you why I left. To let you know it wasn't because of you."
"I don't care why you left. It doesn't matter. You left. That's all that matters."
I'd been standing back, letting this play out, but Harper looked like she might physically attack her father. I stepped forward. "Harper. Maybe we should go somewhere private. Talk this through."
"There's nothing to talk through." She turned to Richard. "Leave. Now. I don't want you here."
"Harper, please—"
"I said leave." Her voice cracked. "You were dead to me sixteen years ago. Stay dead."
Richard looked at me, desperate. "Can you talk to her? Please? I just need five minutes."
"That's not my choice to make," I said quietly. "If she wants you to leave, you need to leave."
He pulled out a business card, set it on the reception desk. "I'm staying at a motel on East Hastings. The Sunrise Inn, room 14. If you change your mind—" He looked at Harper. "I'm sorry. For all of it. I know sorry doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry."
He left.
Harper stood frozen in the middle of the clinic, shaking. James looked terrified. I didn't move, wasn't sure if she wanted comfort or space.
Finally, she said, "I need to close early. James, can you call my afternoon clients and reschedule?"
"Of course. Whatever you need."
She walked past me to her office, grabbed her bag, came back out. "I'm going home. I need to—I can't be here right now."
"I'll drive you," I said.
"I drove myself—"
"Harper. Let me drive you."
She handed me her keys without arguing, which told me how shaken she actually was.
In the car, she stared out the window in silence. I didn't try to make her talk. Just drove, giving her space to process whatever she was feeling.
At home, she went straight to the bedroom. I heard drawers opening, objects being moved. When I followed, she was standing in front of the closet holding an old shoebox.
"I kept these," she said, not looking at me. "Photos from when I was a kid. Before he left. I don't know why I kept them. I told myself it was just for the memories of Mom, but I think part of me always hoped he'd come back. That he'd have some good reason for leaving. That it would all make sense somehow."
She opened the box. Photos spilled out—Harper as a child, maybe ten or eleven, with a man who looked like Richard did now, just younger. They were at a park. At a birthday party. At the beach. Normal family photos.
"I was such an idiot," she whispered. "I spent years wondering if it was my fault. If I'd done something wrong. If I wasn't good enough to make him stay."
"Harper—"
"And now he shows up dying and wants forgiveness. Wants to explain. Like an explanation makes it better. Like knowing why he abandoned me will heal sixteen years of damage." She threw the box across the room. Photos scattered. "I hate him. I hate that he still has power over me. I hate that I'm crying over someone who didn't care enough to stay."
I crossed the room, pulled her against me. She fought for a second, then collapsed, sobbing into my chest.
"I was twelve," she kept saying. "I was just a kid. Why wasn't I enough?"
"You were enough. You've always been enough. He was the one who wasn't enough. He failed you. Not the other way around."
We stood there for I don't know how long. Eventually her crying slowed. She pulled back, wiping her face.
"I'm sorry. I'm a mess."
"You're allowed to be a mess. Your father showed up after sixteen years to tell you he's dying. That's mess-worthy."
She sat on the edge of the bed. "Part of me wants to go to that motel. To hear what he has to say. To understand why he left."
"And the other part?"
"The other part wants him to suffer the way I suffered. To die alone the way he left me alone. To feel what abandonment actually costs." She looked at me. "Is that terrible? Am I a terrible person for wanting that?"
"You're a hurt person who's angry. That's not terrible. That's human."
"What would you do? If it was your dad?"
I thought about it. My father had left when I was three. I had no memories of him, no photos, no relationship to mourn. It was different.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But Harper, this isn't about what I would do. It's about what you need. If seeing him would give you closure, then see him. If it would just reopen wounds, then don't. Either choice is valid."
"What if I regret it? What if he dies and I never got answers?"
"What if you see him and the answers don't help? What if they make it worse?"
She pulled her knees to her chest. "I don't know what to do."
"You don't have to decide right now. Take time. Process. Talk to someone—Dr. Okonkwo, maybe. Someone who can help you figure out what you actually want versus what you think you should want."
My phone buzzed. Text from my mom: Saw the news about the grant fund. So proud of you, sweetheart. You're doing something beautiful.
I showed Harper. "My mom. Being supportive from two thousand miles away."
"You're lucky. Having a mom who stayed."
"You have a mom who stayed too. Who worked three jobs. Who sacrificed everything. Who raised you alone and did a damn good job." I sat next to her. "Your father leaving doesn't diminish what your mother built. Or what you became."
"I know. Logically I know that. But seeing him today—" She shook her head. "It brought back everything. Every time I wondered if I was lovable. Every time I sabotaged relationships because I expected people to leave. Every time I made myself small so Joel wouldn't abandon me." Her voice broke. "He's the reason I spent ten years with the wrong person. Because I was so terrified of being left again that I stayed even when I was miserable."
"That's not on him. That's on Joel for being a coward. And on you for making the best choices you could with the information you had."
"But if my father hadn't left—"
"You'd still be human. You'd still have fears and insecurities. Maybe different ones, but they'd exist." I grabbed her hand. "Harper, your father leaving was his failure. Not yours. And whatever you decide to do about seeing him now—that's your choice. Not his. You get to choose."
She leaned against me. "I hate that he still matters. After all this time. I should be over it."
"You don't get over abandonment. You just learn to live with it."
"Is that what you did? With your dad?"
"I never had to. He left before I could remember him. So there was nothing to get over. Just nothing where a father should have been." I paused. "But yeah. I learned to live with the nothing. Didn't make me less angry about it. Just made the anger normal."
We sat in silence, surrounded by scattered photos of Harper's childhood. A life that looked normal from the outside. A family that fell apart when the photographer left.
"I'm going to call Dr. Okonkwo," Harper said finally. "Schedule an emergency session. Talk through this before I make any decisions."
"Good idea."
"And Crew? Thank you. For coming to the clinic. For driving me home. For not telling me what to do."
"That's what husbands are for. Showing up. Being present. Not being total idiots."
"You're setting the bar very low."
"And yet I still manage to trip over it occasionally."
She smiled slightly. First time since seeing her father. "I love you."
"I love you too. Even when you're a mess. Especially when you're a mess."
That night, Harper got an emergency phone session with Dr. Okonkwo. I gave them privacy, went to the balcony, called David.
"Harper's father showed up today," I said. "After sixteen years. Told her he's dying and wants to apologize."
David whistled low. "That's heavy. How's she handling it?"
"Not well. She's angry. Hurt. Confused. Doesn't know if she should see him or tell him to fuck off."
"What do you think she should do?"
"I think there's no right answer. Just choices with different consequences."
"That's very wise for a hockey player."
"I'm occasionally profound. Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."
We talked for twenty minutes. About abandonment, about forgiveness, about whether dying people deserved grace just for dying. By the end, I didn't have answers. Just more questions.
Inside, Harper was off the phone. She looked exhausted.
"Dr. Okonkwo says I should see him," she said. "Says not getting answers will haunt me more than hearing them. Even if the answers suck."
"Do you agree?"
"I don't know. But I think I'm going to go. Tomorrow. Get it over with." She looked at me. "Will you come with me?"
"Of course."
"Even though he's a stranger who abandoned his daughter and doesn't deserve my time?"
"Especially because of that. You shouldn't face him alone."
She kissed me. Soft. Grateful.
"Thank you for being here. For all of this."
"Where else would I be?"
We went to bed early, both of us knowing tomorrow would be hard. That facing Richard Sinclair wouldn't fix anything. But maybe—just maybe—it would give Harper the closure she'd been missing for sixteen years.