A survivor, my father was once again fighting for his life
After a few perfect days of a West Coast vacation, I returned home tanned, relaxed, and ready to share my experiences. I had gifts and warm regards for my parents, and my first stop was their home — the hub where my siblings and I always gathered. My mother always had something delicious coming out of the oven and my father was forever paternal, reassuring, and entertaining. It didn’t matter that I was a grandmother now; good times at my parents’ home were an eternal extension of my childhood.
I was on my way out when my brother met me at the front door. He welcomed me back and asked how the weather was, how the cousins out west were, and how our father was doing.
“Fine, same as always,” I responded.
“Really… so you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
He stood in place, a blank expression on his face. “Oh.”
Something about his tone felt ominous. “Oh, what?” My heart was pounding.
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