Inside, voices drift from the living room—soft, professional, too calm. The kind of calm that makes you feel like your world is just another Tuesday on someone else’s schedule.
I step into the hallway and stop.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket over his legs, trying to look like this is no big deal. Cameron sits on the arm of the couch, jaw tight, hands clasped like he’s praying.
And Logan?—
Logan is in the corner, not in the center, not inserting himself, just…present. Brace on. Crutch leaned against the wall.Shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact. His gaze flicks to mine when I enter, and it’s careful again. Quiet.
Not smug.
Not proud.
Just…there.
A woman in a navy cardigan stands when she sees me, smile gentle and practiced. “Sloane? Hi. I’m Marissa. I’ll be your father’s hospice nurse.”
The wordhospicefeels like someone poured ice water down my spine.
I force my face to be neutral. “Hi.”
Marissa gestures toward the couch. “We were just going over what support looks like. Comfort care. Symptom management. What we can provide at home, then we will just chat for a little bit about what is most important to him in terms of his care.”
At home.
As if my father dying is a service package.
I swallow hard and sit on the edge of the couch, spine straight, notebook already open in my lap, because if my hands are writing, they’re not shaking.
Marissa speaks softly, carefully. She explains what her job will be as a nurse, aides, equipment. Meds. Pain control. Headaches. Seizure risk. Appetite changes. Mood changes.
Brain tumor behavior changes.
Every word lands like a nail.
Pops cracks a joke halfway through—something about finally getting room service—and Marissa laughs politely, Cameron’s jaw clenches harder, and my throat burns because my dad is trying to makethislighter for us.
I ask too many questions.
Pops reaches out and squeezes my hand.
“Slo,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”
I realize I haven’t.
My chest aches as I drag in air.
Marissa continues, voice steady, “We’ll focus on quality of life. Keeping him comfortable. Supporting you. Supporting the family.”
Supporting the family.
My eyes sting.
I blink hard.
Across the room, Logan’s gaze is on me—quiet, unblinking, like he’s absorbing the weight I refuse to set down.
I hate him for that.
