When he finally spoke, his voice came out thin. Defeated.
"I was trying to fix it. Before you had to know. Before it became your problem."
"It's already my problem. It's been my problem since Mom died and you started making decisions alone."
His eyes closed. "I didn't want this for you."
"I know."
The anger drained as quickly as it had risen. Leaving only exhaustion. The terrible, crushing weight of watching someone you love disintegrate from pride.
Pride might actually kill him. And I had no idea how to stop it.
Rain drummed harder against the window. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped its steady, mechanical heartbeat.
My father didn't open his eyes. Didn't argue. Just lay there, smaller somehow. Older. Mortal in ways I'd spent years refusing to acknowledge.
"Tell me the truth," I whispered. "How bad is it?"
A long pause.
Then, "Bad."
The fight drained out of me.
I stood. Crossed to the bed. Rested my hand over his—papery skin, prominent veins, trembling beneath my palm.
"I'm sorry." My voice came softer. Gentler. "I didn't mean?—"
"I know."
"We'll figure it out." I squeezed his hand. "Together. Okay?"
He didn't answer. Just kept staring at the ceiling like solutions lived there, hidden between acoustic tiles and fluorescent fixtures.
"Sit up," I said. "Let's talk this through properly."
He shifted. Pushed himself more upright against the pillows. Color rising again—that feverish flush that made my stomach clench.
"We can do payment plans," I offered. "The hospital has programs. I looked into it this afternoon while you were sleeping."
He shook his head.
"Or we sell some things. The car—you barely drive it, anyway. Maybe some of Mom's jewelry. The pieces we never?—"
"No."
"Dad—"
"We're not selling your mother's things."
"She wouldn't care about jewelry if it meant keeping you alive."
His jaw locked. "No."
I pressed on anyway. Desperation making me stupid.
"What about downsizing? The house is too big for one person. We could find something smaller. Use the equity to?—"
