“He Is Dangerous” — My Father Said about our Neighbor, I Acted like a Naive Girl and…

Gray hair now fully silver, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a cardigan for goodness sake.

The man looked like he should be hosting a public television show about butterflies. He stared at me for a long moment, and then I watched as recognition flooded his face.

It was followed by something that looked like grief, followed by something that looked like hope. He said my name, not as a question, but a statement.

“Viola.”

He said.

And then, before I could even begin my rehearsed story about being confused and needing help, he said the words that brought me to this moment.

“I’m your real father, Viola, and I’ve been waiting 25 years for you to knock on this door.”

He said.

So much for playing dumb. Theodore invited me inside with hands that trembled slightly.

I noticed he had to steady himself against the door frame. This man had waited a quarter century for this moment; I couldn’t imagine carrying that kind of hope for so long.

His living room was exactly what you’d expect from a retired literature professor. Books were everywhere, not arranged for show but clearly read and loved.

Comfortable furniture that had seen better days. Photos on the mantle of people I didn’t recognize.

And one photo, just one, slightly hidden behind the others: a baby picture of me. I recognized it because my mother had the same one in that hidden album in the attic.

Theodore offered me tea, then coffee, then water. He was so nervous he could barely complete a sentence.

Finally, I told him to sit down before he wore a hole in his carpet. He laughed—this surprised, grateful sound—and I realized it was probably the first time in years someone had spoken to him like a normal person instead of a pariah.

Over the next three hours, he told me everything. He and my mother had met at a bookstore in 1991.

She was 23, working as a secretary, engaged to Jose Brennan. Theodore was 30, already teaching at the college.

They had reached for the same book of poetry at the same moment. And somehow that small coincidence had turned into coffee, then dinner, then something neither of them had planned.

Constantia was not happy in her engagement. Jose was stable, came from money, was approved by her family, but there was no passion there, no connection.

With Theodore, she found something different, something real. Their relationship lasted four months.

Then Constantia discovered she was pregnant. Theodore wanted to marry her; he wanted to raise the child together.

He begged her to leave Jose, promised he would take care of her, promised they could build a life together. But Constantia made a different choice.

Jose had money, Jose had family connections, Jose had a future that looked impressive on paper. Theodore was a young professor with student loans in a small apartment.

In Constantia’s calculation, security won over love. She broke off the relationship immediately.

She married Jose three weeks later, before she was showing. She never told him the baby wasn’t his.

Jose believed Viola was premature when she was born full-term. Nobody questioned the math.

When I was born, Theodore tried to be part of my life. He sent letters to Constantia asking for photos, asking to see me.

He opened the trust fund in my name, depositing his inheritance so I would be provided for. He was desperate to have some connection to his daughter even if he couldn’t be her father publicly.

Constantia’s response was to file a harassment complaint. She told the police Theodore was stalking her, sending unwanted letters, watching her house.

She told Jose, and Jose threatened to ruin Theodore’s career if he didn’t stay away. Theodore was given a choice.

Disappear from my life completely and keep his job, his reputation, everything he had built, or fight for his parental rights and lose everything. He made the choice he thought was best for me.

He stayed away. He kept his distance.

He stopped sending letters, but he couldn’t stop watching. When the house across the street went up for sale five years later, Theodore bought it.

Not to stalk, not to harass, just to be close. Just to watch his daughter grow up even if she never knew who he was; just to make sure she was okay.

All those years, he had been there. Every birthday, every first day of school, every milestone I had, he watched from his window.

He kept a journal of everything he saw. He never stopped loving a daughter who had been taught to fear him.

I asked him about the trust fund. His face darkened.

He had set it up with Constantia listed as guardian, believing she would use it for my education, my future. Instead, she had forged documents, claimed I was mentally incapacitated, and drained every penny for herself.

When Theodore discovered what she had done, he had tried to pursue legal action. But by then the money was gone, spent on Wesley’s failed businesses and Nadia’s European adventures.

The lawyers told him it would cost more to fight than he would ever recover. So he did the only thing he could.

He kept watching. He kept waiting.

And he kept hoping that someday his daughter would find her way to the truth. Then I asked about the DNA kit, the one that arrived anonymously at my apartment.

Theodore’s eyes filled with tears. He admitted it was him.

He had been watching for years, waiting for any sign that I was questioning things. When he saw me find the photograph in the attic through my old bedroom window, when he saw the way I looked at it before hiding it in my pocket, he knew.

He knew I was ready. He said he’d bought that DNA kit three years ago.

He’d been carrying it in his desk drawer waiting for the right moment. When he saw me searching, he finally had the courage to send it.

He apologized for not being braver, for not finding another way, for every birthday he missed, every scraped knee he couldn’t bandage, every achievement he couldn’t celebrate. I told him he had nothing to apologize for.

The villains of this story were not across the street. They were in the house I had called home for 32 years.