Seeing him upright instead of lying there motionless hits me so hard my chest squeezes.
A nurse stands next to the monitor by the bed, adjusting something on the screen. Dr. Reeves is beside her, flipping through a chart with the calm focus doctors always seem to have when someone else’s world is spinning.
“Dad?” My voice cracks before I even reach the bed.
His head turns toward the sound. The movement feels heavier than before. Slower. One side of his face doesn’t quite match the other. The left side droops, pulling his mouth down at the corner. His eye on that side sits a little lower.
Then his eyes lock onto me.
“But... ton,” he says.
The word struggles past his lips, slurred in a way that makes my heart ache. The sounds come out wrong.
Button. That is what he is trying to say—the nickname he has called me since I was five years old, when I insisted on wearing that stupid bright yellow coat with the giant buttons down the front, and I refused to take it off for three months straight.
I rush forward before I even realize my feet are moving. My arms wrap around him carefully, terrified I will hurt him somehow, pressing too hard or holding too tight. He is thinner, more fragile in a way my dad has never been before. The solid strength I’ve always associated with him now feels… breakable.
“You’re awake,” I whisper against his shoulder, my voice trembling. “You’re awake.”
His arm lifts slowly, the right one, while the left barely moves, just twitching against the blanket. His hand settles on my back, alittle clumsy but still familiar. He’s still my dad, trying to comfort me, even when he’s lying in a hospital bed.
I pull back and blink away the tears to look at him.
His face looks different, but his eyes are the same—warm and kind. Still my dad, looking back at me with all the love I’ve known my whole life.
Fresh tears stream down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. They keep flowing no matter how many times I blink.
“You gave me a hell of a scare,” I say, voice shaking.
Dad’s mouth attempts to smile but only the right side responds. The left side remains still and unmoving.
“Sor… ry,” he manages. The word drags out slowly, with each syllable requiring effort.
I shake my head and squeeze his hand.
“No, you don’t have to say sorry,” I say, leaning closer to him. “You just focus on getting better. That’s your only job right now.”
Dr. Reeves clears his throat beside us, the sound drawing me back to the people in the room.
“It’s good to see you, Lola,” he says.
I swipe the back of my hand across my cheeks, trying to regain control of the tears that refuse to cooperate.
“Thank you for calling,” I say, my voice still raspy.
Dr. Reeves gives a slight nod.
“He’s responding well so far,” he explains calmly. “There’s still a long road ahead, but waking up is a very positive sign.”
A long road ahead. The words should scare the fuck out of me. Instead, they settle somewhere deep within and take root, because the road ahead means something important. It means there is still a future.
I nod slowly, my fingers gripping Dad’s hand tighter. I refuse to release it.
“His speech will improve with therapy,” Dr. Reeves continues. “Same with mobility on his left side. It’s going to take time and effort, but there’s every reason to be optimistic.”
Time. Effort. Therapy. Recovery. Words that would have terrified me yesterday. But tonight, they sound almost beautiful because each one reminds me my dad is still here, still fighting, still breathing.
My dad’s eyes drift past me toward the doorway, toward the tall figure leaning against the wall near the entrance.
