What Happened In The Room

A Daughter's Imaginings at Her Father's Deathbed

Until now, everything I’ve written has been autobiographical—true stories, with a few names changed but no real embellishments. Even the wildest moments in my Dating Diaries are grounded in real events, real things said or done, and my honest, unfiltered reactions. I fancy myself creative, but I can’t make that shit up.

Guy suggested I dig a little deeper into the story of my ex-husband returning to my father’s deathbed without me. That really happened. A small but devastating moment in time that has plagued me since February 2020. The not knowing. The betrayal by the man I married. The raw wound it left behind, marking the beginning of what would be a hard-fought five year battle for my freedom. You can read the inspiration for today’s essay below.

All my essays will continue to be rooted in truth. But this one? This is what I think happened in that room, based on what I know of the two men who were there.

Are you ready?

First, a little primer

Years ago, I became enamored with understanding my dreams. I don’t really dream. Yes, I know everyone dreams every night but unlike many, I have no recollection of my dreams. If they’re in there helping me process things while I sleep, the messages are lost on me. Conscious me has zero dream recall; this has always been the case. Looking back, I can only recall a handful of dreams I’ve had over the years. Now, the ones I remember are doozies; bright, bold, vibrant in ways that seem to blur the lines of dream and reality. The dream I had late in my pregnancy with Guy about my long dead childhood “boyfriend” visiting me in my NYC apartment to gossip about people we went to high school with is a real stand out. Later, when my marriage was in shambles and my life was falling apart a dream about being asked to leave a dinner party to wash dishes while a young woman came in to keep my seat warm next to my then husband ended up being wildly prophetic. That one deserves a whole novel or at the very least 3-6 months of intensive therapy.

At some point, probably on the internet, I learned a trick to help gather the threads of dreams: keep pen and paper on the nightstand and ask your dreams questions before you fall asleep. For years I asked my dreams the same thing: What happened in the room the day my ex-husband visited my father without me?

I never, not once got a reply.

I wrote a whole essay about it and how my father’s silence was his final act of protection. I was perfectly satisfied by this outcome, or so I thought.

Guy’s suggestion to dig deeper into that moment with my writing inspired me to yet again, ask my dreams for insight, or inspiration. Early one morning a few weeks ago I finally got a flicker. A thread to pull. A whisper of a story that tore me from my sleep. What is it, mystically speaking, about that 3-4am hour? The veil must be thin at that time.

What follows is what I saw. Or maybe more honestly, what I felt.

What Happened in the Room

I’m in the hallway of my dad’s hospice facility on that bitterly cold day in late February 2020. The air feels sterile and loaded all at once. I hear the muffled voices of nurses and death doulas as they go about their daily routines; gently ushering the dead and dying along their journey while consoling bereft families not wanting to say good-bye. It’s sacred work. An honorable and brutal job not many souls will sign up to do.

A pandemic is quietly gathering force in the world beyond these walls. Inside, you can smell the extra cleaning supplies with every breath. Even layered with antiseptic, the heavy, unmistakable weight of death lingers—clinging to your pores, drying out your tongue, embedding itself in your sinuses, scratching behind your eyes, and choking your voice down to a whisper.

One nurse glances my way but seems to look right through me. I quickly realize I’m not really here. I don’t think she sees me standing there, I don’t think anyone can see me. I see but I’m not seen. I hear but go unheard. I can smell everything, but no one notices I’m breathing. It’s an apt metaphor for the last seven years of my life. I am merely a voyeur on this leg of my journey. I’m not here to participate—only to observe. I’m here as a witness.

A cold blast of air cuts through the hallway and enters my space. Instinctively look towards the entrance.

I recognize my ex-husband approaching the front door.

I brace for the usual rush of anxiety, pain, and fear to well up inside me when I realize who I’m seeing. But that terror isn’t there. I feel detached, safe, protected and unseen. He pauses before pulling the heavy door open as if to collect himself. I see it now; he’s donning his mask. The one he wears when he needs to perform.

He walks in, smile at the ready, eyes locked on the elderly volunteer at the front desk. She's gray-haired, soft-looking—perfect for his charm. He compliments her blouse. “A little sunshine for a gloomy place,” he says. She blushes. Smiles back. He’s always known how to manipulate the maternal types.

But I’m immune now.

His smile is a little too wide, uncomfortably wide and shows a lot of teeth. Almost carnivorous. His eyes—once warm and sparking when we met—are flat, hollow. The sparkle has died, and part of him with it. He walks through this place of death like a man already embalmed. That irony makes me smile on the inside. It fills me with warmth and satisfaction, but also, oddly, grief. For what was. For what never could be.

Visitor badge in hand, he makes his way towards my dad’s room. Suddenly I’m aware of someone else’s thoughts in my mind. It’s like I’m privy to his inner monologue at this point. The closer he gets, the louder the voices in his head strum.

He’s worried about the nurse at the desk—was it the same one from yesterday? The one who didn’t fall for his act? He wonders if she overheard him on the phone with his mistress, making weekend plans. Did she hear what he said about Roy? About me?

But it doesn’t matter. She’s just a woman. And in his world, women are weak. Disposable. Probably a liar, cheater, and whore like all women are. That’s the lesson he was raised with. The legacy passed down by the fathers and the fathers’ fathers. The chain. And now it’s his job to pass that knowledge on to his own son. Women are weak and meant to be manipulated, broken, not just bent. Guy, he thinks, is too soft. Too kind. Too loving. My influence. He’ll need to correct that. Once Roy is gone, it’ll be easier to reshape the boy. Easier to make him a man like them.

Yes, Guy needs to learn all women are liars, cheaters, and whores, even the old lady at reception who fell for his smile. Especially the too clever nurse and other women like her.

He adjusts his mask and applies his best victim face—the one he conjures when he’s pushed a woman a little too far. It isn’t a face he likes to wear, it’s too close to his soul. It’s his lost boy face; a boy so lost it makes a woman fear he could harm himself; distraught and deeply sad. He only pulls that face from the box in the most dire of times like now, when he wants to disarm and redirect even the most clever nurse’s attention. It will make women want to save him and it never fails. Wearing that mask used to take a larger toll on him, but he’s employed this particular face on his wife so much lately, the mask slides on easily. It moisturizes his skin enough to make it look like has unshed tears in his eyes. The too clever nurse nods him by, the mask did its job so as he enters Roy’s room, he easily slides it back into its box.

About the box.

It’s his ironclad box he uses to compartmentalize his worst deeds and houses his darkest masks. It’s buried deep inside what’s left of his soul. It’s an ironclad box that cannot be breached. Handed down like a family heirloom. It’s fortified by over fifty years of deceit. It’s strong, like a real man. It’s the box he uses when his father physically threatens the mother of his children, and he looks the other way because the financial payout will be worth it in the end.

He and I enter my dad’s room.

Roy looks frail, breath shallow, death’s rattle is close, it’s in his shirt pocket. Death is close enough to sit on the windowsill. I hate it in here. I tuck myself in a corner, undetected. The room is heated to keep my dad comfortable, but I can feel a coldness radiating off my ex-husband. I’m able to manage my sadness because I know my dad’s struggle is almost over and he isn’t in any physical pain.

My ex-husbands thoughts are loud now inside the small hospital room. The room is so close, his thoughts are almost deafening. A lot of conflict is going on in my ex-husband’s mind and he’s struggling to come to terms with and gather his thoughts. Of course, his most diabolical thoughts win out. Any humanity or affection he ever felt or feigned towards my father are easily trumped by an angry internal monologue. I regulate my breathing so I can focus solely on what he’s thinking. I’ve waited years to understand this interaction; as hard as it is to witness, I don’t want to miss a single moment.

He sees my dad struggling and his immediate thought is, Roy looks weak, like a woman. This isn’t surprising to me.

He’s never understood my dad. My dad doesn’t have an ironclad box for compartmentalizing. He’s never understood why Roy’s dad didn’t give him that gift. It’s a necessary tool for manipulation and doesn’t he know, you only win when you manipulate and destroy. Did his father not teach him that on the farm? Didn’t his dad teach him to lie even when the truth would serve him better? Didn’t his father teach him women are only good for one thing, they can’t be trusted, they’re weak and practically beg for manipulation? How has he lived so long without believing women are liars, cheaters, and whores? Women are to be always loathed, only a weak man believes otherwise. These thoughts rip through his mind at breakneck speed.

He never understood my father. Never understood how a man could lead without threats, love without conditions, give without expectation. Roy never wore masks. Never needed an iron box to hide his shame. His people—my people—were soft, generous, kind. And in my ex-husband’s world, that’s the same as being unlovable.

He wants to yell this truth at Roy; he wants to make him feel the darkness he feels. Didn’t his mother look the other way when his father was helping him build his ironclad box just like his did? Didn’t his mom cower in the presence of her husband, doesn’t Roy know, that’s how it’s supposed to be? How sad Roy’s life must’ve been lacking the ability to compartmentalize away misdeeds he was destined to perform. How does one live without an ironclad box to store you many different masks? No place to hide your memories, especially the ones that evoke emotions that feel big and unwieldy. He almost feels sorry for Roy’s ignorance and lack. He wants to infect Roy with the darkness he’s carried all his life. The bitterness. The bile.

Not a word has been said aloud, I think he’s afraid to speak. He’s struggling still, weighing his options. My ex-husband is a true Libra, not in the sense of justice; in the sense that he could never make a decision. He’d get twisted up in the minutia of trying to figure out what would serve him best, always weighing his options. He’s feeling this now and it’s making his anger grow. I can feel the heat beginning to rise off his body.

He's angry at my dad for being so deeply loved without threats, or manipulation. He’s angry at my dad for never understanding he did what he did because women are inherently unlovable and must be shown this at all times, especially when it’s dark and no one other than his wife is there to see him without his mask. He’s so very mad at my dad because Roy didn’t own masks and people respected him even though he wasn’t rich. Roy never threatened to withhold resources, and freely gave his love which he had aplenty, and his money which was sparse. This has always been a foreign concept to my ex-husband because he had no love to give, not even to himself. Any love he ever felt had been safely locked away in his ironclad box in his youth when his mother turned a blind eye to his father’s machinations and tyranny. Weakness.

But he hesitates.

He watches Roy struggle and realizes he likes the death rattle sound, envies it because it sounds like peace. There’s a flicker of something—maybe guilt. Maybe longing. Maybe the buried boy in him who wishes he’d known a father like Roy. He considers asking for forgiveness. He thinks, for a second, that maybe Roy could absolve him. Maybe that’s why he came. He wants to clear his soul of his sins. Only a man like Roy can absolve him—perhaps his purity of heart can wash him clean. But before he can work up the courage to speak, the ghost of his own father slams the lid closed and chastises him for being weak.

I can hear his father’s voice clearly, it’s loud and angry, some things never change, even in death. His father’s voice roars inside his skull: Weakness. Useless. You’ve failed.

He stiffens. Snaps to attention.

His father’s voice grows louder, more insistent: You’ll have the money soon enough. That’s what matters. Power. Control. You were never meant to be loved—you were made to dominate. It’s all he’s ever wanted—ultimate power to wield over those who are weaker than him, just like his father did. Power to inflict his greatest cruelties on people who only wanted to love him. Love is a weakness his people do not abide.

His father reminds him how he married poorly, I was too clever, my heart too big. I ruined his grandson and in doing so, gave Guy the ability to break the chain. My love didn’t allow Guy’s ironclad box to grow, to metastasize in his soul. My ex-husband is a failure, a disappointment to his father. He always was, he always will be. He tells him he’ll have to start again if he wants to continue the chain, start a new family with a woman whose heart doesn’t bleed, who isn’t as loving. His father’s voice is full of rage. The power of his voice in my ex-husband’s head is overwhelming.

The voice fills the room with a putrid stench. It’s the same fear I used to feel when his father entered a space. That sense of a monster nearby, cloaked in charm but rotten underneath. I can feel him trying to claw his way into my mind, into the soft parts I’ve spent years healing. I shrink in the corner, instinctively going small. It's what I learned to do in the presence of these monsters. I start to make myself small again, even in a room where I’m unseen.

But then—something shifts.

I feel my own father stirring.

He senses it too. The evil in the room. The darkness. The heat. The thick, invisible sludge coating the air.

And then, just as I begin to falter, I feel him wrap around me. A warm, radiant embrace. Not physical, but real. My father surrounds me—not with words, but with protection. His strength is quiet but fierce, and it explodes in my chest like light breaking through a locked door.

I am no longer afraid.

The sticky, humid warmth pulsing off my ex-husband is replaced by a warm, gentle embrace. This time, it’s my father’s presence. He doesn’t speak to me, it’s taking all his energy to wrap me in a blanket of protection. I am not afraid. My father’s strength, Roy’s strength is suddenly loud and explosive in my mind and my heart. His love is a warm protection wrapped around my soul. I am safe, finally safe from my ex-husband’s demons. My ex-husband’s father’s voice fades away.

My father has arrived.

My father’s burst of energy seems to have shaken my ex-husband’s resolve. He schools his face and leans towards my dad to speak to him. The sweat on his forehead beads and that vein between his eyes protrudes so much you can see the staccato pulse of his dead heart beating.

I can taste the bile in the back of my ex-husband’s throat.

He leans in closer to hear the beautiful death rattle sounds. My ex-husband is so excited to enjoy the rattle, his hands shake with anticipation, maybe delight. He has to clench his fists to regain control of his body. But just as he prepares to savor the sound, my father silences it. Just like that. A final burst of strength.

My father will brook no solace, no comfort, no absolution for this cruel man who has no soul. He denies him his only request and quells the comforting sounds.

In an angry panic my ex-husband digs deep, searching frantically inside his ironclad box for the right mask, the sharpest tool, but his fragile humanity only finds darkness, hatred and more bile. The bile is heavy and sticks to him like tar, pulling him down into quicksand. It’s a jail of his own making. His box is strong; there’s no escaping it now. It has overtaken him and will ultimately be his undoing, he knows that. But I am safe.

Humanity gone, now he will use the ironclad box’s power to destroy all who have denied him. It will embolden his audacity, and give him the courage he needs to plumb the depths of new cruelties. His heart is fully black, there is no more light in him.

In a whispered breath close to my father’s ear my ex-husband says aloud, “You can’t protect her now. I know all her weaknesses and Guy and Girlie are the perfect pawns. I’ve bent her so hard, I’ve cut her off from everyone she loves. I’ve made her doubt her own sanity. She’s fragile and frail, it’ll be easy to deliver the final blow to fully break her spirit. She’ll be gone in a year. Guy and Girlie will have to live by my rules when she’s gone. I win. I always win. Consequences always miss their mark when aimed at me, I am invincible.”

And then—light.

In a final act of defiance? Protection? Love? My father fills the small room with golden light. It explodes from my father’s chest, pulsing like a sun too powerful to be looked at directly. It sears my ex-husband’s skin. Not literally, but spiritually. It burns with the unfamiliar heat of unconditional love.

He recoils.

He’s never felt the brilliant light of unconditional love—from a father, from anyone. It’s foreign to my ex husband and chafes at his skin. He pulls back abruptly and stumbles onto the chair by my father’s deathbed. It takes a moment for the ringing in his ears to subside, for his dead heart to kick back into action, his acrid breath begins to fill his lungs again.

My ex-husband wipes the strange tears from his eyes and straightens his jacket.

As he stands from the chair he looks around the room disoriented. For a moment I’m afraid he can see me perched in the corner. I defiantly stare into his flat, dead brown eyes and realize all he sees is darkness. Not even my light born of love can break through, it never could.

He’s definitely shaken by the experience. If he were a better man it may have made a difference; he could’ve course corrected, but he’s too far gone. Lost inside his ironclad box of misery and hate. Anger and entitlement are his shameful legacy, it’s been passed down for generations of men in his family. It’s all they know, all they will ever know. He wears his rage now like armor.

My ex-husband throws my father’s door open as the too clever nurse rushes in. She recoils at the rage emanating from his aura and this time, he has no mask and can’t look her in the eye. He violently shoves past her as she makes her way into my father’s room.

She feels the calm surrounding my father and knows he’s okay. She senses the blanket of warmth in the room and knows he did what he must even if she doesn’t understand how. She applies drops to his tongue to help quiet the rattle of death that has returned. She gently holds his hand and tells him she can see love all around him and exits the room.

Now it’s just me, in the corner of the room housing my father on his deathbed.

I am safe.

I feel his protective shield of love around steady, strong, golden. I know that shield will always be with me.

I go to his bedside and place my hand on his.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I’m proud to be your daughter. I know I’ll be safe now. I can feel it. Whatever he has planned, I’m protected. And so are Guy and Girlie. I’ll share your blanket of love with them. I promise.”

I kiss him gently on his forehead and tell him it’s okay to leave, I’ll handle it from here.

He can rest, his final act of protection is all I need to combat the evil that awaits. It’s a quiet strength I’ve known from him my entire life wrapped around me like a golden light.

As I leave the room, I hear his rattle return. Louder now. A final sound. But this time, it doesn’t fill me with fear.

I inhale deeply and smell his familiar scent.

Tobacco. Tomatoes. Consort hairspray.

It makes me smile.

I know he’s free of his pain and ready to roam behind the veil, keeping an eye on his loved ones as they travel this journey together in love.

Thank you for staying with me through this one. Writing it cracked something open in me—something I thought I’d already healed. But that’s the funny thing about grief and clarity: they show up in waves, and sometimes they arrive disguised as imagination.

If you’ve ever wrestled with unanswered questions or tried to make peace with the silence someone left behind, I hope this piece gave you permission to explore what your own heart still wants to say. Whether it’s through memory, metaphor, or something whispered in the quiet before dawn—it counts. It all counts.

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