• I stared at the large, black, iron gate that stood before me, bordered on either side by brick walling laced with some kind of leafy vine. ‘Grimswell Cemetery’ was written in iron on top of the open gate, with one word on each side. I looked back at Mary, the elderly woman who had raised me since I was a baby, her silver hair braided loosely. She had a shawl around her shoulders, just thick enough to keep out the warming, but still brisk, spring wind.
    When she saw me looking back at her, she smiled reassuringly. She had told me earlier that I didn’t have to do this but I did. I had to see it. I turned back ahead, took a deep breath and forced my feet to move forward. It took a few minutes, and quiet directions from Mary, to find what I was looking for.
    Among the other gravestones lay the grave marker of the father I had never known. It looked exactly the same as all the others –gray, rough and partially covered in moss. Careful so as not to disturb the grave itself, I moved closer to the stone and pulled away the moss to reveal the name, date of birth and date of death. ‘Grant Michael Harper. Born November Sixth, 1881. Died April Seventh, 1897.’
    I knelt down beside the grave, no longer trusting my legs to hold me up. It was hard to believe that I was so close to my father, had been so close to my father. Albert, Mary’s late husband and a father figure to me, was buried just a row over. All the times we’d come to visit Albert, and Mary never told me that I was but a couple metres from my father.
    Turning my head, I looked over to her. She seemed so frail now. Granted, she’d already been old enough to be a grandmother when she got me but, now, it was hard to imagine that she was the same strong, fierce woman who hadn’t been afraid to give me a good whack when I’d misbehaved as a child, or even the woman she had been yesterday. It was amazing how much someone could age in a matter of hours.
    As a child, I’d had plenty of questions regarding who my parents were, but I’d respected and loved Mary too much to ask her. I’d had her and Albert. I didn’t need my real parents. But still the questions had burned inside me like the flames that had engulfed one of the wharfs a few months ago. Yesterday, on the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I’d finally gotten some answers.

    I’d been making my way home from where I worked at the local grocer’s. It had been the same as any other day –repetitive, boring and safe. Mary had always told me to count my blessings every day nothing bad happened, like getting robbed, mugged or shot by a member of one of the local gangs. I’d never heard of any of them robbing a grocery store, of all places. I think Mary was just worried about my safety. The only thing she’d ever told me about my father was that, if it weren’t for Simmons and his gang, he would have been a part of my life. I’d asked what Henry Simmons had to do with my father but she hadn’t answered.
    When I reached the house, passing by young children playing on the cobblestones or pestering their fathers and older brothers as they came home from work, I walked up the steps and pushed open the door. No wonderful smell of cooking food greeted me like it usually did. Instead, I heard Mary talking to someone. As I stepped into the house and closed the door behind me, I frowned at the sound of a man’s voice.
    I hurried into the kitchen, almost missing the presence of two large travel packs that were leaning against the wall beside the door. I paused in the doorway to the kitchen, frowning in confusion. Mary sat at the table, looking at me in surprise with an empty cup on the table before her. Next to her sat a man who looked about thirty with blond hair, deep blue eyes and clothes that looked worn out, as if from travelling. If the packs were his, he probably had been. Beside the man sat a woman with coffee-colored skin, black hair and deep brown eyes. Her clothes were also worn and her stomach was rounded, heavy with child.
    “Michael!” Mary exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realized how quickly the time had gone.”
    “It’s fine,” I told her, not taking my eyes off the strangers. It wouldn’t be the first time we would gather up what loose change we had lying about and getting something from the nearby tuck shop. It was becoming a more common occurrence as Mary got older. Besides, not having a meal ready for me was the least of my worries. “Who’s this?” I probably sounded more hostile than I meant to but I didn’t like strangers.
    No one answered my question. Instead, the man stood up and took a couple steps towards me. I had to force myself not to step back. He was much larger than he’d appeared while sitting down, with broad shoulders and being nearly six feet tall. He looked me up and down before a smile broke out on his face. “So, you’re my nephew,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly light for someone his size and lightly accented American.
    “Samuel!” Mary snapped.
    The man, Samuel, looked back at her. “What?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused but wearing a mask of obviously-faked innocence.
    “I haven’t told him yet,” she ground out, looking more annoyed than the time I’d broken the laundry line and sent all the clean clothes down into the dirt before.
    Samuel shrugged. “No time like the present.”
    Mary sighed deeply. “At least let me give him the letter,” she said before standing up.
    I can’t remember what I said, probably something intelligent like “Huh?”
    Mary rolled her eyes before leaving the room only to return a minute later with a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age, which she handed to me. “Go read this in private,” she told me. “When you’re ready, come back out and we’ll talk.”
    I looked at her warily before casting a glance at Samuel and the woman. After looking back to Mary, I nodded and left the kitchen, retreating to my room. Taking a seat on the edge of my bed, I looked down at the letter. My name was scribbled on the outside but nothing else. What secrets did it hold? What answers? After taking a deep breath, I unfolded the letter. My eyes immediately snapped to the bottom where it was signed ‘Your Father, Grant Michael Harper.’ The date at the top read April Forth, 1897.
    My Son,
    I would like to apologize, straight off, for not being a part of your life and I want to reassure you that I do want to be. Before I get ahead of myself, I should probably start at the beginning.
    My mother was a prostitute. I have two siblings, twins four years younger than me, and not half-siblings either. My mother was convinced the same man that fathered me fathered them too.
    She died when I was six, leaving me to care for my younger brother and sister. Somehow, I managed to keep us alive until I was fourteen and caught the attention of Henry Simmons. He offered me a place in his ranks in exchange for food and board, and whatever else was needed, for both me and my siblings.
    When I was fifteen, me and some of the others got drunk. I woke up in a whorehouse. I didn’t remember anything that happened that night. I still don’t. I don’t want you to think that I’m the type of man who goes to prostitutes. I’m not, especially when I think of my mother.
    I got out of there as quickly as possible. Nine months later, the woman I’d slept with hunted me down in the pub we used as a base. She brought you with her, hidden in the basket she carried and covered by a blanket. She put the basket on the table in front of me and told me about you being born. She had no doubt that you were mine. You must have looked a lot like me. I don’t know, but I’ll get to that later.
    She told me that she didn’t want you trapped in our world and that I would have a better chance of getting you out than her. I didn’t question her decision.
    I knew I couldn’t keep you. I already had Samuel and Hannah to look after. How could I –a single man, not even fully grown- look after a baby? So, I took you to Mary and Albert. I knew them from before Simmons. I knew they were childless and could take care of you.
    I couldn’t look at you as I brought you to them. It may not be manly to admit it, but I knew that if I took the blanket off you and saw your face, I wouldn’t be able to let you go. My mother had drilled into me the importance of family and I have clung to that lesson like a lifeline.
    Mary and Albert didn’t question me when I gave you to them but I told them anyway. They didn’t judge me and I’m grateful for that. I’m sure they were good parents to you. I know they were good parents to me and I often wonder what would have become of me, Samuel and Hannah if we had stayed with them.
    Please, do not be angry at Mary for not telling you about me earlier. I asked her not to, not wanting you to come looking for me and get sucked back in. I have asked her to keep this letter for you until you turn eighteen. By then, I hope, I have made something of myself, something that would make you proud to be my son.
    If, after all this time and what’s written in this letter, you still wish to meet me, I will have told Mary where I am, if I have moved. If, for whatever reason, you are unable to find me, know that I do care about you and that you are always in my thoughts.
    Sincerely, Your Father,
    Grant Michael Harper
    Swallowing, I slowly lowered the letter to my lap. I had no idea what to think. It was hard enough to wrap my head around the fact that this letter was from my father let alone what the letter had told me. While I tried to take in everything I’d learned, one question kept coming back to me. Where was he now?
    When I returned to the kitchen, Samuel was chewing on something that looked like a strip of dried meat while Mary talked with the pregnant woman. They all looked up when I appeared in the doorway.
    “Where is he?” I asked, barely able to hear my own voice. I cleared my throat before repeating the question.
    Mary and the other woman looked over to Samuel who looked back at them, sighed then nodded. He motioned me over and said, “Sit down.”
    My heart started beating faster as I crossed the room and took the seat beside him. Before, even though he had looked thirty, he’d seemed to be more of an overgrown child. Now, he seemed more mature. No, more somber.
    Samuel didn’t speak right away, remaining silent for a minute before speaking. “He was killed in a job gone wrong four days after you were born.”
    I found myself staring at him. In the letter, my father had admitted he’d been in a gang so I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. I mean, the men in gangs didn’t exactly last long, except for the very best of them. I had never met my father but I found myself disappointed, at the very least, by finding out about his death.
    “What was he like?” I asked quietly.
    Samuel smiled weakly. “Protective, loyal, painfully stubborn and very serious. I don’t think he ever told a joke in his life. But you would have like him. I’m sure of it.”
    I found out a lot about my father, my family, that night. From what Samuel said, it sounded like my father had grown up quickly after the death of his mother and never had a real childhood. After my father’s death, Samuel and Hannah, having nothing to keep them in London and not wanting to share their brother’s fate, stole enough money from Simmons to get out of England and go to America. Hannah, sharing the stubborn, independent spirit of her brothers, lived in Los Angeles where she controlled the gang of her late, first husband with the help of her second-in-command and second husband. Samuel had had more success escaping from the world that had claimed their brother. He travelled the world with his wife, Maria, who was expecting my first cousin. As for my mother, Samuel had no idea who she had been.
    It was nice to know that I had family out there, but that didn’t change the fact that something was still missing. There was one thing I needed to do.

    I looked away from the grave to Mary. “Can I have a minute?” I asked.
    She smiled and nodded. “I’ll wait for you at the gate,” she told me before moving off.
    I waited until she was out of sight before looking back to the grave. “Hey Da,” I said. I hesitated before continuing on. “I got your letter. There are so many things I want to tell you.”