My Junior’s Father

My dad died a hero when I was six. He’d saved someone, leaving my mother to care for my ailing grandmother and fend off the debt collectors who were a constant presence at our door. But no matter how hard life got, my mom never remarried. “Your father was a hero,” she’d always say, her voice soft with reverence. “I want you to be just like him. Always do good.” During my senior year of college, a freshman I’d helped out invited me to her family’s home for New Year’s. “Dad, open up! I brought a friend home!” she called out, her voice bright and cheerful. But when the door swung open, I froze. Her father… he had my father’s face.

1 “You must be Zoe, right?” Winona’s father greeted me with a warm, polite smile. “Come on in, make yourself at home. I’m afraid my wife is away on a business trip, so you’ll have to put up with my cooking. Don’t be too harsh a critic, okay?” The resemblance was staggering. It was more than a resemblance—it was him. I just stood there, staring, the world seeming to slow down around me. Those familiar features, the slight downturn of his lips, and especially the small, triangular scar just below his eye. He looked older, of course, etched with the lines of time, but he was undeniably the man from the faded photograph my mother cherished, the one she’d look at for hours on end. Even his voice, with its faint trace of a Westland accent, was the same. “Mr. Vance, are you from Westland?” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. He glanced at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “How did you know? I moved out here more than twenty years ago. Haven’t been back since.” Twenty years ago? My father disappeared sixteen years ago, when I was six. The timeline was wrong. Could he have a twin brother I never knew about? Or was it possible for two complete strangers to look so utterly identical? I followed Winona to the guest room, my mind a chaotic whirl of questions. “Zoe? Are you feeling okay?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. How could I possibly say it? ‘Hey, your dad is the spitting image of my dead father.’ It sounded insane. My eyes scanned the room and landed on an old family photo on the desk. The date printed in the corner was from twenty years ago. I would have been two. In the picture, Winona was just a newborn, cradled in her parents’ arms. Their names were engraved on the frame. Vincent & Isabelle Vance. Her father’s name was Vincent. My father’s name was Victor. Victor Vance. The last name was the same. “I’m fine,” I managed, forcing a smile. “It’s just… your parents are such a handsome couple. How did they meet?” Winona’s face lit up, clearly delighted to share their story. “My mom always says she was on a business trip in Flatwater about twenty years ago. She got mugged, and my dad chased the robbers off.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It was love at first sight. As soon as her work was done, he followed her all the way back here to Seabrook.” Flatwater. The name hit me like a physical blow. The rest of her words blurred into a dull hum. My family was from Flatwater, a small town in Westland. If this was a coincidence, it was the cruelest one imaginable. “Do you know where in Flatwater your dad is from?” I interrupted, my voice more urgent than I intended. Winona shook her head. “I don’t think so. He told me his parents passed away a long time ago, which is why he had nothing tying him down. He left Westland and never looked back.” My grandmother died when I was eighteen. So maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe there was no connection at all. But the doubt was a hook in my heart, and I couldn’t let it go. Later, at the dinner table, I decided to test the waters. I pretended to make casual conversation, steering the topic toward local heroes. “It’s funny, I’m from Flatwater too. Small world, huh?” I said, my eyes fixed on Vincent’s face, searching for any crack in his carefully constructed facade. “My dad was a real do-gooder, too. I bet you two would have gotten along great. It’s a shame he’s not around anymore. He drowned saving someone when I was six. They never found the body.” At the mention of this, the man’s head snapped up. Our eyes met. He tried to mask it, to keep his expression neutral, but I saw it—the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed as he truly studied my face for the first time. It was a flicker of something more than just sympathy. It was recognition. A cold dread washed over me. What had started as a wild suspicion now solidified into a terrifying certainty. He and my father weren’t just connected. They were the same person. Vincent Vance was the supposedly dead Victor Vance.

2 The realization that my father was alive didn’t bring joy. It brought a hot, searing wave of shame and rage. I wanted to grab him by the collar and scream. If you were alive, why didn’t you come home? He disappeared when I was six, yet Winona was only two years younger than me. The math was ugly and undeniable. He didn’t care about me or my mother. But what about Grandma? Did he not care about his own mother, either? I thought of the beautiful woman in that family photograph, and of the casual way Winona had mentioned her maternal grandfather’s powerful position. The bitter truth settled in my stomach. Whatever the answer was, asking for it would only be a form of self-torture. It would only prove that my mother, my grandmother, and I were nothing but burdens he had been all too happy to cast off. Sixteen years had passed since that “accident.” I was no longer a child who needed a father. “Mr. Vance,” I said, putting a little too much weight on the name as I broke eye contact. “You must be so happy to have a daughter like Winona.” I could almost hear the quiet sigh of relief from him. “Happy, yes. But raising her has cost me a fortune,” he said, his tone laced with an unconscious doting that made my skin crawl. “But you know, Zoe, I think of you as a daughter, too. I’ll take you both shopping tomorrow. Pick out whatever you like, it’s on me.” A sheet of ice formed around my heart. He thought of me as a daughter? No. He was a guilty man trying to buy my silence. “That’s very kind of you, but no thank you,” I said, emphasizing my words. “I’m already imposing. I couldn’t possibly let a man I’ve just met buy me gifts.” “You’re our guest…” he started to insist, but Winona, who had just finished her meal, playfully stuck her tongue out at him. “Dad, you’re going to make her uncomfortable,” she said, getting up and pulling me by the hand toward her room. “But I have tons of clothes I’ve barely worn. I’m sure Zoe wouldn’t mind taking some of those, right?” Listening to her casually mention which coats were designer and which were filled with premium goose down, a sense of grim acceptance washed over me. My feelings toward Winona were complicated, but I held no ill will against her. I hadn’t known my father long enough to miss him, and she was, by all accounts, a genuinely sweet girl, completely devoid of any spoiled-rich-kid attitude. I squeezed her hand gently. “Thank you, Winona. This is more than enough. I won’t have to buy a new winter coat this year.” The New Year’s holiday flew by in a haze of internal turmoil. Every time I looked at that familiar face, my mind was flooded with images of my mother, working her fingers to the bone to raise me, and my grandmother, whispering her son’s name on her deathbed. Winona was in her room packing her things to go back to the dorms. I was waiting anxiously in the living room, ready to leave, when a low voice pinned me to the spot. “Your grandmother… is she… is she doing okay?” The man, my father, had his face in his hands, but I could see the glint of tears in his eyes. Crocodile tears. I let out a cold, bitter laugh. “She died four years ago. The last words she ever spoke were ‘Victor Vance.’” The news seemed to stun him into silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was a ragged whisper. “It’s all my fault.” I had no patience for his performance. I stood up, grabbed my suitcase, and headed for the door. He caught up to me, pressing something into my hand. “There’s twenty thousand dollars in here,” he said, his expression now hard and serious. The tearful, remorseful man from moments ago had vanished. “From this day forward, we have no connection. Don’t you dare try to leverage anything from me or my family.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a menacing hiss. “And most importantly, you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.” His words struck me like a slap. My entire body trembled with rage. Did he really think twenty thousand dollars could erase sixteen years of abandonment and betrayal? The only reason I would stay silent was because I chose to, not because he’d bought me off. “My mother raised me without a single cent of child support from you!” I spat, my voice shaking. “I’m about to graduate. I don’t need your damn money.” I threw the bank card onto the floor, took a deep breath, and gave him a look of pure contempt. “You should thank God you have a daughter as good as Winona.” My voice dropped, turning icy. “Because if it weren’t for her, I would burn your entire world to the ground.”

3 Back at the dorm, I called my mom to let her know I was safe. Her warm, fussing voice over the phone was a balm to my raw nerves. As we talked about my job search after graduation, she sighed wistfully. “If only your father were still here,” she murmured. “He had so many connections. He could have found you a wonderful job in no time.” Listening to her weave tales of his competence and kindness, stories polished by years of loving memory, I almost blurted out the truth. Victor Vance isn’t dead. He abandoned us, changed his name to Vincent Vance, and wants nothing to do with us. He’d rather we all believe he’s a dead hero. But by the time we hung up, the words remained unsaid. In my mother’s heart, her husband was a saint, her spiritual anchor. The real Victor Vance was a scoundrel who had abandoned his dying mother, his wife, and his daughter without a second thought. When confronted, he’d shown no remorse—just a flicker of fake sadness for his mother and not a single question about the wife he’d left behind. What good would the truth do but shatter her? It was better to let the dead stay dead. The next day, I was in a large lecture hall with my roommate when I got the distinct feeling I was being watched. Whispers followed me like shadows. When I turned around, everyone would quickly look away, but I could still catch snippets of conversation. “Is that her? The homewrecker?” “I think so. I thought this kind of drama only happened in soap operas. Who actively tries to become their friend’s stepmom?” “That’s what gold diggers do. As long as the guy’s got money, they don’t care how old he is.” I was completely bewildered. Were they talking about me? When had I ever tried to break up a marriage? “Zoe, you need to see the campus confessions page! Now!” my roommate hissed, shoving her phone in my face. Her eyes were wide with shock. Anonymous Post: Senior Special Ed major Zoe Vance went home with a friend for New Year’s and is now trying to seduce her friend’s father. She’s a homewrecker trying to destroy their family. Update: The friend, feeling sorry for Zoe’s poor background, even gave her expensive designer clothes. This is how she repays her? An ungrateful, backstabbing snake. The baseless accusations on the screen felt like a hand closing around my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who posted it. The only people who knew about the clothes were me, Winona, and her father. But why? Just yesterday, she had been so kind. Why would she intentionally try to ruin my reputation? I thought we were friends. I sat through the rest of the lecture on pins and needles. As soon as it was over, I found out Winona was at the gym and stormed over, my heart pounding with anger. At first, she denied everything. But when I pointed out that she was the only person at the university who knew I’d accepted her clothes, her demeanor shifted. She dropped the act, her expression hardening into a defiant sneer. “Did the post lie about anything?” she shot back. “You were so pathetic at my house you were practically begging for my old clothes. And you took a bank card from my dad! A card with twenty thousand dollars on it!” Her voice dripped with venom. “What is that if not being a shameless homewrecker?” She looked at me with pure hatred. “Let me tell you something, Zoe Vance. If my parents’ marriage falls apart because of you, I swear I’ll make you pay!” A collective gasp went through the crowd of students that had gathered around us. The revelation that I had accepted a huge sum of money from a middle-aged man seemed to cement the rumors. In their eyes, I was already tried and convicted. I was a gold digger. A homewrecker.