Page 112 of Cruel Submission

I wish everything in life could be this simple.

“Now,” Dad says, picking up his fork. “Tell me about this granddaughter of mine. You’re due in two months, Mira, and I intend to be around to meet her. Show me scans.”

The rest of the meal passes in normal conversation—ultrasound images on my phone, debates about baby names, Debra telling edited stories about settling back into life, Dad sharing overly detailed accounts of his treatment schedule as if oncology appointments are dinner party anecdotes.

When Dad checks his watch and says he should get back for afternoon vitals, we walk him to the fourth floor and settle him into his room. He hugs us both again—longer, tighter.

“Dr. Klein thinks I might be discharged next week if these numbers hold,” he says.

Discharged. The word doesn’t feel real.

“We’ll be here,” I promise.

In the hallway, the door closed behind us, I turn to Debra.

“I need to use the bathroom. Wait for me in the family room?”

She squeezes my hand once and heads down the corridor.

I don’t go to the bathroom. I find Dr. Klein in the consultation room off the main corridor—the same room where, three months ago, he sat me down and talked about palliative care and making Dad comfortable.

“What is this miraculous recovery?” I ask before I’ve even properly sat down. “I hardly recognize my father. He looks so good.”

Dr. Klein settles into his chair, removes his glasses, polishes them with the edge of his coat. Puts them back on.

“His response to treatment has been… nothing short of miraculous. Tumor markers down significantly. Kidney function improving. Appetite returned. Weight gain steady and healthy. All his vitals are trending in directions we rarely see at this stage.”

“Three months ago, you were talking about making him comfortable before death. What changed?”

“This is my personal opinion, Miss McLeod,” he says carefully, as if trying to pick the right words. “Not official medical literature. But I’ve been practicing oncology for twenty-three years, and I’ve seen patterns.” He pauses. “Your father’s system was weakened due to extended trauma. That’s the kind of environment that allows cancer cells to flourish. Deep trauma makes people sick. The body and mind are not separate—they communicate constantly, and when the mind is in a state of prolonged grief, the body responds. Stress hormones, inflammation, compromised immune function. Your father was grieving his daughter. That grief was killing him as surely as the cancer.”

I can’t speak. He continues.

“Now he has both of his daughters back. His will to live is back. And when the will to live returns, sometimes the body follows.” He hesitates. “I want to be very careful making statements like this, because it’s early days. But I think your father is one of those rare people who could recover from this. Not just survive—recover. With regular medical checks and continued treatment, he could live a good, fulfilled life after the disease.”

I collapse back into the chair. My hands cover my face, and I’m crying—properly crying. I’ve spent a year crying over my dad. But these are different tears. These are the good kind.

“I’m fine,” I manage when Dr. Klein makes a concerned noise. “I’m just—God, I’m so happy.”

He slides a box of tissues across the desk and lets me cry it out.

When it passes, I wipe my face, take a breath, and try to pull myself together.

“Thank you. For everything you’ve done for him.”

“It’s my job.” Simple, factual, but warm. “And for what it’s worth, your father is lucky to have you both. That kind of love isn’t quantifiable in blood work, but it matters.”

I find Debra in the family room. She stands the moment she sees my face.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” The words come out choked. “Dad’s going to be okay. Deb, he’s actually going to be okay. Dr. Klein thinks he could recover. Really recover. Because of you. Because you came home.”

Debra’s face crumples. Then she’s crossing the room and pulling me into a hug, and we’re both crying—messy, inelegant—two women in a hospital family room holding onto each other because our father might live.

We stand like that until the tears stop. Until the world settles back into its ordinary shape and we remember we have to drive home in a bulletproof car while armed men follow at a discreet distance.

But right now, none of that matters.