Stephanie Daich
- Jan 6
- 4 min read

FILLING MY FATHER'S SHOES -Flash Fiction by guest author Dawn DeBraal

When she entered the room, the hospice nurse announced it was time for the family to step in to say our goodbyes. I allowed my mother and sister to go in first, followed by my younger brother. Father lay on his death bed, gasping for breath. I did not want to see this, and I did not want to be here. Ricky, my younger brother, ran crying from the room. No one went to comfort him. I was afraid that my father would die while I was with my younger brother.

Did he have any last words for me? I couldn't afford to walk out and never know his intentions. Mum had his hand in hers, kissing his knuckles. She held on to him like he was the rosary she prayed with nightly. I felt sorry for Mum. Life, as she knew it, was on the way out.

My father ruled his family with an iron fist. There was never any love or tenderness. Everything we did never met his expectations. He worked two jobs to provide for us, and it killed him.

He looked small and weak; I wondered why I feared him all these years when my eyes roamed over this shriveled body. He was only human. I looked around the room, seeing my parent's personal effects. A few sets of clothing on pegs along the wall, Mum's straw garden hat, her crocheted shawl, and father's boots, misshaped with well-worn souls.

I was only twenty-three when my father presented himself for death, and I was not ready to take the mantle or fill his shoes.

He raised himself on one elbow first, talking to my sister. She kissed his cheek, turned from him crying, and ran into my mother's arms.

"Matt," he whispered as if the very act of saying my name caused him great pain.

"Yes, Father?"

"Take care of your mother for me."

"I will, Father."

"Come closer." He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to his face, whispering in my ear. My eyes grew big, and I nodded to let him know I'd heard and understood what he was telling me. I patted his arm and reassuringly told him I would do as he asked.

Then I went and retrieved my brother. "Ricky, come."

"I can't. It's too much." Ricky cried into the crook of his arm.

"Ricky, if you don't, you will always wonder. Don't spend your life living in fear. Come with me." I held out my hand, and Ricky took it. We walked into that room, and he sat in the chair I had just vacated.

"Ricky," my father coughed a bit before adding, "You are my favorite child." My heart sank.

How could he betray me in the end? Hadn't I done everything Father ever asked of me? It was such a bitter pill to swallow as he lay dying, telling my little brother that he was the favored son. I always suspected as much.

Ricky cried, and my mother put her arms around him. Being the eldest, I couldn't show emotion, at least not now while he was dying. I wouldn't give him that. I owed him nothing anymore. Closing my eyes, I remembered him kicking me down a flight of stairs with the boot that sat in the corner. I failed him again, having never measured up to his standards. I was always so sorry that I didn't meet his expectations.

Ricky cried harder, and my father touched the side of his face to comfort him. He'd always kept my mother, sister, and me at arm's length. I raged against his cruelty even as he died.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head when he breathed his last breath. Mum held his hand, and Ricky stood behind me, his face buried in my shirt.

"It's death. It can't hurt you." I assured my brother. Father's chest rose again, fell in uneven gasps, and stayed still.

It was over.

My father was dead. Mother's hand went to her breast. The keening from her heart filled the room and my soul with her depths of despair. Even though my father had been a cruel man, he provided for us, and somewhere deep inside, he loved us in his way.

I pulled Mother to me and let her melt at that moment. I would be the man in the family from now on. When she stopped, I handed her a handkerchief. My family left the room, leaving me with the shell of the man he was.

As he lay on the bed, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of forgiveness because life never gave him a break; even in the end, death took its victory.

I walked over to the boots in the corner of the room, twisting the heels, finding the hollowed-out compartment filled with money, enough to get us by for quite some time.

I despised him at that moment. While we lived in poverty, he walked around with so much money in his bootheels.

When I get over my anger, I will thank him for providing us with enough to live on until I can get a better job. There is much yet to do to support this family; I feel inadequate, for I will never be able to fill my father's shoes.