“I know you’ve been avoiding me, I understand why. Your heart must jump into your throat when you see the hospital’s number come up on your phone.”
“Please tell me he’s getting better.”
“Your father’s heart is failing.”
“He promised to help me with my schoolwork.”
The tears are welling up in our eyes now, but I know how to block them.
“You have to do everything. He worked two jobs to keep me in school.”
He is shrinking now. Only anger bolsters his impossibly thin frame from collapsing. His fists are clenched.
I stumble for a second, seeing my son in the flash of his eyes. That connection swamps me with empathy. I can’t give into it, or I won’t be able to go through with what I need to tell him. So I brace myself. I break the connection by stepping back.
“We have been doing everything for over a month now. The dialysis is only buying us time, but his lungs are like concrete and he’s shutting down.”
“He meant to get the shot. I even booked him the appointment. He was just so …”
“Don’t agonize over the past, please.”
It’s then his rage gives way to defeat. He involutes as paper rends into ash and accepts this denouement. Because this is not the first time I have told him he’s loosing a parent.
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