I thought about him in there watching the only person he ever loved slowly suffer and die.

He blamed my father for that.

What better revenge, I thought, than to lock my father down there alone for the rest of his life?

Uncle Myron was down the ladder now. “What is this place?”

I could hear the awe in his voice. I didn’t answer. Seeing what I was doing, Myron ran down the corridor and found a metal bar. He started working on the other side of the frame. I swung the axe until exhaustion. Then I kept going. When I needed one short break, Myron took over.

I pounded on the door. “Hello?”

No reply.

Was I wrong?

I took the axe back. Myron worked with the metal bar.

Finally, after half an hour, I felt the door budge just the slightest bit. That propelled me. Or worse. I may have lost my mind at that stage. I don’t know. But I started wielding the axe harder and harder, tears running down my face, my muscles so far beyond exhaustion, I didn’t know what would happen next.

“Please,” I cried. “Please . . .”

In the corner of my eye I could see Myron watching me, wondering what to do, whether he should grab me and stop my frenzy.

He looked as though he was about to do just that when the heavy door finally gave way.

It fell into the darkened space with a great thud. For a moment, no one moved. Nothing happened. There was no light in the room. I stopped breathing. I dropped my axe, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my phone.

As I switched on the light, I saw a figure rise before me in silhouette.

I lifted the beam toward a familiar face.

My heart stopped.

The face was drawn and bearded, but I recognized it even before I heard Myron gasp out loud.

With my legs shaking, I stepped into the room and managed to say just one word.

“Dad.”

EPILOGUE

Ten minutes later, I walked into another dark room.

After I said his name, my father ran to me. I wrapped my arms around him and just collapsed. But my dad held me up. He held me up for a very long time. Pain is a funny thing. It can’t endure in the face of hope. Even as my father held me, even as I knew that we weren’t out of the woods yet, I could feel so much of my old pain subside. I could feel my wounds closing up as though something divine had touched me.

Maybe it had. What really is more divine than a parent’s love?

My father was alive.