After I hung up, I sat on my bed for a long time, staring at nothing. Then I went downstairs and told my dad. He froze. Not startled. Not angry. Just… still. Like someone had pressed pause.
“She called?” he asked quietly. I nodded. He sat down slowly, rubbing his hands together. After a long moment, he said, “You should go.”
I stared at him. “You’re okay with that?”
“I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the word,” he said. “But I won’t stand in the way of you getting answers.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said.
He looked at me then, really looked. “You could never hurt me by wanting the truth.”
We went together. The hospital smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. She looked even weaker in person. Smaller. Like time had been draining out of her for years. When she saw me, her face crumpled—not into tears, but into something held back too long. She smiled like she’d been waiting nineteen years to let herself.
We talked for hours. Not about anything important. School. Movies. Books. She asked what I wanted to do after graduation and listened like the answer mattered. I told her about my part-time job, my favorite professor, my terrible sense of direction.
She never once mentioned leaving. Never once explained why. Eventually, my dad stepped out to give us space. That’s when she tried again.
“My request,” she said. Then she started coughing—hard, deep, shaking. A nurse rushed in, adjusting monitors, murmuring reassurances. I stood there uselessly, heart racing.
When the nurse left, my mom reached for my hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling. “After I tell you the truth,” she whispered, “please don’t let it destroy the man who raised you.”
A chill ran through me. “What truth?” I asked.
She looked past me, toward the door. “He never told you, did he?”
I shook my head.
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