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“Actually, Frank. I do. My father is tired. He’s had a day and I don’t want to push him further than he should.”

He nods his head. “Oh, okay, Lydia.” He shakes his head. “Of course, this must be a lot for you.” He goes to leave and I relax until he stops and turns back around. “Oh, I almost forgot. I don’t have a Mrs. to make a casserole, but I wanted to do something for you so I went to the store.” He walks back to his car, opens the back door, and pulls out a paper bag. He approaches and hands over the bag. “Sorry it’s not something already cooked, but there’s some basics to get you through. Who doesn’t love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

I smile and take the bag from him without saying anything.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it then,” he finally says, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. He takes a step back but doesn’t turn away. His eyes flit past me, toward the house, before settling on my face again. His lips curl faintly, as though savoring some private joke. “It’s… good you’re here now. Can’t imagine it’s easy, stepping back into this place. Taking on a responsibility like this.” His voice lowers, the hint of something unsaid hanging in the air. “Especially with everything that’s happened.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his words hit. “Life’s full of responsibilities,” I say simply, hiking the bag of groceries up on my hip.

Frank chuckles softly, tipping his head in mock agreement. “That it is. Well, you let me know if you change your mind. I’m not far. I left my card in the bag. It’s taped to the peanut butter.”

I stay rooted to the porch, my eyes following him as he ambles back toward his car. Every muscle in my body screams to hold my ground until he’s out of sight. It isn’t until the engine roars to life and the silver sedan disappears down the road that I exhale, tension still clawing at my shoulders.

Something about him feels wrong. I glance back at the house, then at the fading trail of dust where Frank’s car had been.

I let out a sigh and head back into the house, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. Inside are the usual offerings, cans of soup, a loaf of bread, jars of peanut butter with his card indeed taped to the top, raspberry jelly, and a carton of milk. But at the bottom, tucked beneath it all, is a small envelope.

I tear it open, expecting some kind of generic card, but it’s empty. Except for a single slip of paper.

Proof in deliverance, it reads.

The handwriting is scrawled but unmistakable. My father’s. Sharp and angular, like the edge of a knife pressed just beneath the skin. Each letter slashes across the page with a precision that feels deliberate, a whisper of control that reaches across time. Even now, years later, it still has the power to unsettle me. A memory resurrected in ink.

The words loop in my mind, clawing at something just out of reach. My stomach tightens, a slow, writhing knot, bile licking at the back of my throat. Proof of what? And who’s supposed to be delivered?

I run my fingers over the dried ink, half-expecting it to smear, to bleed beneath my touch. But it doesn’t. This ink is old, years old by the look of the paper’s yellowed edge. Not written today. Written before and kept waiting for the right moment to be used.

I shove the paper back into the envelope, toss it into a drawer, and slam it shut.

And just like that, I know I’ll be sleeping with one eye open tonight.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

The house is cold this morning, colder than it should be, but again, December is closing in. I’ve turned the heat up, but the chill seeps in from the walls, as if the house itself resents being inhabited again. Or maybe it’s him. His presence, like a rotting core at the center of it all, poisoning the air, making it heavy, stagnant.

Janice, the nurse who will be handling my father’s case, came yesterday to set up everything that was delivered earlier that morning. The oxygen concentrator with its steady hiss and click is now the loudest thing in the house. She went over his medication schedule and when she’ll be on staff. She went over my father’s comfort measures, his twice-daily pain assessment. Repositioning every two hours to prevent bed sores. Mouth care. Eye drops. Everything needed for the body to be maintained. Not healed. He will never heal.

This is the first morning of many, I’m sure. None of which I want to repeat, but sadly, I don’t have another choice.

The sponge bath comes first, wiping down his sagging flesh, his skin papery and damp beneath my hands. He’s unbearable in a different way now, dead weight, useless. I scrub harder than necessary, my jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

And then I reach it.

Flaccid.

Shriveled.

A pathetic thing, lying against his thigh like some deflated relic of the past.

My stomach turns, the nausea rising hot and sudden. Revulsion twists through me like barbed wire. How many times have I imagined cutting it off? Neutering him like the sick animal he is? The blade sinking into soft flesh, parting skin, severing what he once used to wield power over me. The urge is sharp, persistent, and cruel in its temptation.

It would be so easy.

But I can’t. Too many eyes are on him. Too many people know who he is, what’s happened to him. They see a broken man, a tragedy in a wheelchair. A victim of fate. They don’t know he’s always been paralyzed, just in different ways.

“Honor your father and your mother,” they say.