A young marine once walked into a hospital ward. The nurse on duty, catching sight of him, breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad you could come,” she said. “Your dad has been asking for you. He won’t be here much longer, but it’ll do him so much good to see you.”
The marine held his breath, feeling tension in his shoulders as she led him down the hall. In a small room, on a narrow hospital bed, with machines hooked to all his vital systems, an old man lay, waiting for death, but hoping his son would get there first.
“He’s here,” the nurse said, softly, but with a note of joy. “Your son is here!”
The old man opened his eyes. Hazily, through blurred vision, he saw the young marine standing straight and tall by the side of the bed. The patient stretched out a hand.
Without a word, the marine stretched out his own hand, clasping the old man’s trembling fingers in his own strong ones.
The nurse pushed a chair up to the bedside for him and left them together.
All evening and on into the night, the old man lay peaceful, never letting go of his son’s hand. All evening and on into the night, the marine sat calm, content to hold onto the old man’s fragile fingers.
The nurse came by a few times, urging him to rest for a moment or two, but the marine refused.
The old man took his final breath as the sun rose, illuminating the room.
When the marine walked to the nurses’ station and told the friendly nurse, she looked up with quick sympathy. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he not able to say anything before…”
But the marine cut her short with a question. “Who was that man?”
Astonished, the nurse exclaimed, “Wasn’t he your father?!”
“No,” the young man shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“But why…”
“I knew there was a mistake, but he needed someone, and his son just wasn’t there. Since he didn’t realize I wasn’t his son, I stayed.”