My father, the indomitable force, was being eaten alive from the inside out.
And he had hidden it. From everyone. From me.
"How long?" The question was a razor blade in my throat.
"I can't be certain without his records. But judging by the progression... six months. Perhaps longer."
Six months.
He had known for half a year that he was dying. He had carried this secret like a final, ruthless piece of strategy.
"Where is he now?"
"We're moving him to the ICU. You can see him shortly, once he's settled."
I nodded, the motion feeling like it belonged to someone else.
The surgeon left, and I stood alone in the gleaming hallway, the words echoing, a hellish mantra. Brain cancer. Stage four. Terminal.
Sometimes I wish... if I could start differently, I would have cherished you more.
