Page 15 of Cruel Obsession

“Dad.”

“I’ve used up my savings on the first two rounds of treatment, Mirabel. The scans, the consultations, Dr. Rahman’s fees.” He finally turns, and the defeat in his eyes nearly drops me. “My insurance covers some of it, but not enough. I need another twenty thousand for the next phase.”

The number lands like a fist.

“Twenty thousand,” I repeat.

He nods.

“So what happens if you don’t get it?”

He doesn’t answer.

The silence is answer enough.

“No.” The word tears out of me. “No. I have savings—not much, but I can—”

“Your savings won’t even cover a quarter of it, sweetheart.”

“Then I’ll get a loan. A second job. I’ll figure something out—”

“Mirabel.” He crosses the kitchen and pulls me into his arms. They’re thinner than they should be. Weaker. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d try to fix it. But some things can’t be fixed.”

“Don’t say that.” My voice is muffled against his shoulder. “Please don’t say that.”

“I’m not giving up,” he says quietly. “But I need you to be realistic.”

Realistic.

Realistic means he could die.

Realistic means I might lose the last person I have left.

“I can’t—” My throat closes. “I can’t lose you, too. Not after Mom. Not after Debra.”

“I know.”

We stand there in his kitchen, holding each other, and I try not to think about numbers. About the three thousanddollars I have saved. About rent and student loans and credit card bills. About the fact that I might not be enough to fix this.

That I’m never enough.

The hours we spend together feel too short, and before long, I have to go.

I pull Dad into yet another hug. “We’re going to figure this out, okay?” I tell him.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he responds. But his smile is sad as I head out the door.

I make it two blocks before I have to pull over.

My hands are shaking too hard. The steering wheel blurs. I yank the car onto the shoulder and throw it into park just as the first sob rips through me.

It’s ugly. Raw. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and primal, tearing up through my chest and out of my throat.

I fold over the wheel. My ribs ache. My lungs won’t fill properly. Everything hurts.

No.

Not Dad.