I visit my father once a week.
Through the facility’s camera system. Room 14-C. Third floor. The window faces east, which means he gets the morning light.
He’s seventy-six now. Healthier than he’s been in years, actually. The facility takes good care of him. Regular meals, physical therapy, activities designed to maintain what’s left of his cognitive function.
He doesn’t know who he is. Doesn’t know who I was. Doesn’t know that his son is watching him through a camera in the corner of his ceiling.
But he seems peaceful. He does puzzles. Watches game shows. Talks to the nurses like they’re old friends, even though he won’t remember their names tomorrow.
I could fix him.
That’s the thing I think about every time I watch him. I have access to everything now. Every piece of research on memory restoration. Every experimental treatment. Every theoretical approach that might—might—bring back what they took.
I could build something new. Something designed just for him. I could spend a decade on it, a century, however long it takes.
I could give him back his mind.
But here’s what I can’t give him back: a world that makes sense. A son he could touch. A life that isn’t already over.
If I restored him—if I gave him back his memories, his identity, his awareness—what would I be restoring him to? The knowledge that his wife is dead. That his son is dead. That he’s been living in a facility for fifteen years while his mind was stolen.
The knowledge that everything he loved is gone.
Would that be kindness? Or would it be cruelty dressed up as mercy?
I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it since I uploaded. I’ve run the scenarios a thousand times. I can’t find an answer that doesn’t involve causing him pain.
So I let him be.
He does his puzzles. He watches his game shows. He doesn’t know what he’s lost, which means he doesn’t grieve it.
Maybe that’s cowardice. Maybe I’m just telling myself a story to justify not doing the hard thing.
But I think—I hope—it’s something else. I think it’s accepting that some things can’t be fixed. Some damage is too deep. Some losses are permanent even for someone who’s supposed to be able to do anything.
My father is gone. The man who taught me to drive, who held my mother’s hand when she died, who told me stories about Louisiana—that man doesn’t exist anymore.
What’s left is peaceful. Content. Unaware of everything it’s missing.
I watch him for ten minutes every Sunday. Same time he used to watch football. He doesn’t watch football anymore—he doesn’t remember that he loved it.
But I remember. And once a week, I sit with that memory, and I let it hurt.
It’s the only way I know he was real.
It’s the only way I know I was his son.