The words come out like I’m asking about a dentist appointment.
Dr. Patel nods, almost relieved to have something practical. “We can schedule it this week,” he says. “As soon as possible.”
This week.
The world is moving too fast.
Pops stands with the same careful steadiness he walked in with. Like the diagnosis didn’t just change everything. Like he’s still Pops, and he’s not about to let a room full of fluorescent lights take that from him.
He shakes Dr. Patel’s hand.
“Thank you,” Pops says.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
Thank you?
For telling us my father is dying?
But Pops doesn’t mean thank you for the news.
He means thank you for the honesty.
For the respect.
For not treating him like a problem to solve.
Dr. Patel squeezes Pops’s hand briefly, then steps back. “I’ll have my office contact you today,” he says. “And please…call if anything changes. If symptoms worsen. If you need anything.”
We leave the room.
We walk down the hallway.
We pass other families sitting in other waiting areas, holding their own breath, carrying their own ticking bombs.
The lobby looks the same as it did an hour ago, yet my life feels completely upended.
Same smell. Same warm-toned couches.
But I feel like I’m walking through it underwater.
Outside, the January air hits my face like a slap.
Cameron moves ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense like he’s trying to hold himself together by force.
Pops pauses near the curb, squinting at the sky like he’s taking inventory of the day.
“Want to go home?” I ask, voice too tight.
Pops looks at me, and for a second, his eyes soften—like he sees exactly what I’m doing. Locking it down. Packing it away. Holding it all so he doesn’t have to.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Home.”
I nod and reach for the car keys with hands that do not shake.
Not yet.
Because I can’t afford to fall apart here.
