I don't like funerals, I never have. I hate the crying and hugging and how only nice things are said about the dead person. Most of all, I hate being confronted by my own mortality. I hate that. I'm too young to think about death.

I'm not even really sure why I'm here. So what if he was my father. Just because we have the same genes, the same eyes, the same name, that doesn't mean anything. I saw him four times since I was five years old. The last time he told me he was dying. Now he's gone and I never even got to know him.

Now that chance is gone.

I turned him away the first time. I was hurting still from what he did. Almost twenty years and I still had nightmares about that day. It was a long time before I forgave him for that.

Who are these people? How did they know my father? I see a woman crying. There is something familiar about her. Who is she? She turns and looks at me. I recognize her. I saw her picture a few times. She was my father's girlfriend for years, even when he was married to Mom. I don't remember her name.

I slowly walk up to her. She takes my hand and hugs me. I hate being hugged by people I don't really know, especially in public, but she is hurting so I don't pull away. "He was a good man," she says.

I say nothing, just nod. I feel strange being around these people who knew my father. I didn't know him. He was a stranger even before he left.

The funeral is starting. I feel strange sitting in the family section. I wish my mother were here, but she is staying with the children. Ellen takes my hand. She is crying softly. She's the one who insisted that I come to the funeral. She told me I would regret it if I didn't. I'm not sure I believe her, but I don't want her upset with me so I am here.

It is strange to hear my name among the survivors. Words are said, people cry, and then it's over. I really, really hate funerals.

Despite the sunshine, the air is cool as we walk outside after the funeral. Luckily, things have been kept quiet and the press is not around. I'm not too fond of the press either, always getting into my business.

At the cemetery there are more people. I still don't know who they are. There is so much I don't know about my father, so much I wish I did know now that he is gone.

Ellen lets go of my hand and I know where she is going. The little memorial was a joint idea, but she visits more. All that is there is just a little headstone with a date. No real grave. It was too early, there was nothing to bury, but we couldn't forget what almost was.

I watch her from a distance, knowing at these times she wants to be alone.

My father's girlfriend walks up to me. I still can't remember her name. She hugs me again. For once I forget my pride and hug her back. I know she must be hurting. No matter what, I must remember that she loved my father very much. "He was very proud of you," she tells me.

I say nothing. The few times that I saw my father, he never once mentioned my music. I didn't even know if he was aware of it.

She lets go of me and I walk over to Ellen. She has finished and together we make our way to the grave site. More words are said and it is over.

As we are leaving, the woman asks me to come to her house, she has something for me. At first I am reluctant, but Ellen tells me I should go, so we agree to go to the woman's house.

I still can't remember her name.

Her house is small, but neat. I wonder why my father never married her. That's none of my business, though. I just want to get whatever she has for me and leave. I have things to do later. I have a recording session in the morning.

She motions for me to sit at the table and then walks down a hallway. I sit down and Ellen sits across from me. She takes my hand. She is my strength.

The woman returns, holding a box. I suddenly remember that her name is Leslie. She sets the box on the table. "He loved you very much," she tells me. I say nothing. I have my own opinions of my father, too many bad memories of him.

She opens the box and hands me a large book. "When he found out he was dying, he told me to make sure I gave this to you. He made mistakes and he paid for that. All he wanted before he died was for you to know that he did love you. He worked on this a lot those last few weeks. Forgive him. The past is over." She takes my hand in hers. "He's sorry about this," she says. "Forgive him, not only for your sake, but for your children."

I think about her words on the way home. I hold the book, not sure if I should look inside. What secrets does it contain? My father is gone and I never got a chance to know him. I don't want my own children to say the same thing about me after I'm gone.

When we get home, I take the book to my room. I want to look at it alone. I sit down on the bed and open the book. Inside the front cover there is an envelope with my name on it. I set it aside for later.

I slowly turn the page, not sure what to expect. What I see surprises me.

It's a scrapbook about me. Newspaper articles, some dating back to the beginning of my career, back when we played at the local clubs. How did he find these? I don't even remember reading them before.

I flip through the pages, glancing at the articles. There are articles about Ellen, too, her movies, the Oscar, Joey's trial. Why does he have the ones about Joey? I can't show those to Ellen. The scars are still too fresh from that.

The last few pages are different articles and there are pictures, too. Our wedding announcement, Sam's birth, Emily's birth. There are a few pictures from magazines, one a family portrait taken just a month before. He knew then that he was dying.

The last page contains the newspaper article about the memorial service we had for the baby we lost. I didn't know he knew about that. He never mentioned it. At that time I had just learned more of what had happened between my parents. It seems I have more in common with him than just eye color.

I don't want to think about that now. I close the book and set it aside. I pick up the envelope and open it carefully.

It is a letter, dated two weeks before. He knew then that he didn't have much time left. I start to read the letter.

Dear Son,
The doctor said this is it, not much time left. I guess if you're reading this, then I'm dead. I hope you are reading it. I bet your mother didn't go to the funeral. That's okay with me. I made my peace with your mother a long time ago.
You probably hate me and I guess you have a right to. I caused a lot of pain for you and your mother. She's a wonderful woman and I'm sorry I hurt her. You have to realize we were young, we did what we were told. I couldn't handle it. That's why I left. It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. You were an innocent victim.
Your mother did a good job with you. You're a success now, got lots of money, a beautiful wife, and great kids. I wish I could live to see them grow up, but I know you don't want that.
All these years I thought about you, wondered if you were okay. I just thought it best to stay away.
I don't blame you for turning me away. You had good reason to. After all, I'm the one who walked out on you all those years ago. But the past is the past.
I'm dying, Michael. I'll be gone by the time you read this.
Don't make my mistakes. I've seen you with your children. You're a better father than I ever hoped to be. Don't throw that away.
Please forgive me.
For what it's worth, I love you.
Aaron

A sudden wave of guilt comes over me. I wasn't there for him, not during those horrible last days. All he wanted was forgiveness and I rejected him.

I start to put the letter back in the envelope when I see something else in it. I pull it out. It is a ticket stub to one of our concerts. It was the week before he went to the hospital the last time.

For the first time, it really hits me. My father is gone. I'll never get another chance to see him, to forgive him. I've screwed up.

I feel the tears start and I don't hold back. Have I been so selfish that I didn't see what I was doing to him?

I hear the door open and I hear Ellen's footsteps as she approaches the bed. She takes me in her arms and holds me as cry. She is my strength. Without her I am nothing.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I whisper and I swear that I can hear his voice, telling me he understands.