Chapter Eight
Ilona
Morning rolls around sooner than expected.
Rolling onto my side doesn’t help. Neither does the heating pad I keep permanently plugged in beside my bed.
The pain radiates from my lower abdomen down into my thighs, up through my ribs, making every breath feel deliberate and costly.
My lower back aches like I’ve been lifting concrete blocks in my sleep.
This isn’t normal, Ilona.
You can’t keep pretending it is.
I catalog the symptoms I’ve been tracking in my phone for weeks: pain that’s getting worse instead of better, periods that arrive two weeks late or disappear entirely, exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch, and the sharp, stabbing sensation every time Stanley tried to…
I push that thought away. Stanley’s not here now, but the pain remains. Which means this isn’t about stress or relationship drama or any of the convenient explanations I’ve been clinging to.
The shower helps marginally, hot water beating against tight muscles. But before long, it’s back.
I need help.
I must speak to Dad.
The drive to my parents’ house takes forty minutes through Boston’s maze of one-way streets and construction zones. My father has always been my safe harbor— but asking for help feels like admitting I can’t handle my own life.
He’s a doctor, for God’s sake!
He’ll know what to do.
I can’t understand why I’ve been so reluctant to approach him. He handles this sort of thing all the time. He’d have no problem with it coming from his own daughter.
Their house sits in one of Brookline’s quieter neighborhoods, a beautiful colonial with pristine landscaping that speaks of financial stability and professional success.
The kind of home that says “respected doctor” to anyone who passes by.
I’ve always felt proud pulling into this driveway, knowing I come from this solid foundation.
But as I approach the front door, voices carry from the kitchen window— raised, tense, unmistakably argumentative.
“Igor, my payment was declined again. We are in the red!” Mom’s voice carries a strain I rarely hear, sharp with frustration and something that sounds like fear.
I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, guilt and curiosity warring in my chest. I shouldn’t be listening to this. But I can’t seem to make myself knock either.
“Don’t worry, I forgot to transfer money. I’ll fix it tomorrow.” Dad’s response is casual, dismissive in a way that doesn’t match the gravity in Mom’s tone.
“You’re a respected doctor with thirty years of practice. This shouldn’t be happening!” There’s desperation bleeding through her words now. “The mortgage, the car payments, my mother’s care facility— we can’t keep juggling everything on credit.”
My stomach drops. Financial problems? Dad has always been the picture of professional success, his practice thriving, money never a concern that we discussed as a family. What’s happening that I don’t know about?
I finally manage to turn the knob and step inside, my footsteps deliberately loud as I enter. The argument dies instantly, voices cutting off mid-sentence like someone hit a mute button.
“Ilona?” Mom appears in the kitchen doorway, hastily wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her smile is bright, but I can tell it’s forced. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t expecting you this early.”
“Hi, Mom.” I study her face, noting the redness around her eyes, the forced cheerfulness that doesn’t mask her distress. “Everything okay?”
“Of course. Just… morning coffee talk.” She waves a hand dismissively. “You know how your father and I can get into debates about household budgets.”
The lie sits uncomfortably between us. Whatever I overheard wasn’t a casual debate— it was genuine panic disguised as marital bickering.
Dad emerges from the kitchen, and his transformation is remarkable. Gone is whatever tension was in his voice moments ago, replaced by his familiar warm smile and open arms. “There’s my girl. What brings you by so early?”
I let him fold me into a hug that smells like coffee and the expensive cologne he’s worn since I was little. For a moment, I’m tempted to pretend I didn’t hear anything, to let them maintain whatever illusion they’re protecting me from.
But the cramping chooses that moment to flare again, a sharp reminder of why I came here.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I say quietly. “About some health stuff I’ve been dealing with.”
Dad’s expression shifts immediately from casual affection to professional concern. “What kind of health stuff?”
Mom excuses herself with another forced smile, claiming she needs to return some phone calls. She kisses my forehead before disappearing upstairs, but I catch the worried glance she exchanges with Dad. Whatever’s happening between them, they’re united in not wanting me to know about it.
“Dad,” I begin, then stop, not knowing how to go on without sounding like a drama queen. How do I describe symptoms that have no clear pattern or obvious cause?
“Sit.” He guides me to the kitchen table, already slipping into doctor mode. “Tell me everything.”
So I do. I tell him about the pain that’s gotten progressively worse over the past two months.
About cycles that have become unpredictable— sometimes three weeks apart, sometimes missed, and sometimes lasting for far too long.
About exhaustion that makes simple tasks feel overwhelming, pain that shoots through my pelvis at random moments, the way intimacy has become uncomfortable and then impossible.
Dad listens without interruption, his expression growing more serious with each symptom I describe. When I awkwardly mention the pain during sex, his jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t make me feel embarrassed or ashamed.
“Can you lean back for me?” he asks gently. “I want to check a few things.”
His examination is thorough but gentle— pressing carefully along my abdomen, noting when I wince or tense. His hands are clinical, professional, but I can see worry building behind his eyes.
“Does this hurt?” He applies gentle pressure to my lower right side.
“Yes.” The word comes out sharply as pain radiates from the spot he’s touching.
“And here?” Left side now, same result.
He sits back, running a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair. “Darling, I need you to see my team for some tests. A full pelvic ultrasound, blood work, possibly an MRI depending on what we find.”
The word “tests” makes me go tense. “You think it’s something serious?”
“I think it’s something that needs proper investigation.” His voice is carefully measured, neither dismissive nor alarmist. “Your symptoms suggest several possibilities, but I won’t speculate until we have data.”
For the first time in weeks, I feel a surge of relief. It feels good not to be dismissed, not minimized, not told to take some ibuprofen and deal with it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, surprised by the emotion clogging my throat. “I was starting to think maybe I was being dramatic.”
Dad’s expression darkens. “Who told you that?”
The question is sharp enough to make me look up. “No one directly. Just… Stanley wasn’t very understanding about it.”
“Stanley.” The name comes out flat, disapproving. “How has he been treating you lately?”
I hesitate, weighing how much to share. But if I’m asking Dad to help with my health, maybe I need to be honest about everything else, too.
“We had a fight,” I say quietly. “A few days ago. He… he accused me of cheating because I didn’t want to be intimate. Said my health issues were convenient excuses.”
Dad’s hands clench into fists on the table, and for a moment, I see something dangerous flash across his features— protective rage that transforms his gentle demeanor into something harder.
“Do you want me to speak to him?” His voice is eerily calm.
“Absolutely not.” The response is immediate and firm. “This is between me and him. I don’t want you involved.”
Dad studies my face for a long moment, clearly struggling with the desire to interfere. Finally, he nods. “If he gives you any trouble at all, you tell me immediately.”
“I will.” The promise seems to satisfy him, though tension still radiates from his shoulders.
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with chamomile tea in the mug I always used as a child— pale blue ceramic with tiny painted flowers that are now slightly faded from years of use. The gesture is so familiar, so comforting, that tears prick my eyes.
“I’ll call Dr. Khan first thing Monday morning,” he says, settling back into his chair. “He’s the best gynecologist in the city, and he owes me a favor. We’ll get you in immediately.”
“Thank you.” I wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat soak into my palms. “I’ve been scared to find out what’s wrong.”
“Fear is normal. But whatever this is, we’ll handle it.” His voice carries absolute conviction. “You’re not facing this alone.”
I believe him. I’ve always believed him. Dad has been my anchor since childhood— the parent who never dismissed my concerns, who took my dreams seriously, who made me feel capable of anything.
But as I watch him now, I notice things I’ve been missing. The slight slump to his shoulders. The way his eyes don’t quite meet mine when he talks about calling in favors. The expensive watch that’s no longer on his wrist— sold, maybe, to help with whatever financial crisis I overheard earlier.
“Dad,” I begin carefully, “the conversation I walked in on with Mom… Are you sure everything’s okay?”
His smile is immediate but not convincing. “Darling, I don’t want you to worry about things that aren’t yours to carry. Your mother and I are fine. We’re just… adjusting some investments.”
The explanation sounds rehearsed, like something he’s practiced saying. But his tone makes it clear the conversation is over, so I don’t push. Not yet.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping tea and existing in the familiar bubble of father-daughter affection that’s sustained me through every crisis of my life. But underneath the comfort, questions multiply like cancer cells.
Why are my parents struggling financially when Dad’s practice should be thriving? Why did he deflect so quickly when I asked? And why does he look so tired, so worn, like he’s carrying a weight I can’t see?
I finish my tea and stand to leave, accepting another hug that feels more desperate than usual. He holds me a beat too long, like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
“I love you, little bird,” he murmurs against my hair, using the nickname from my childhood.
“I love you, too, Dad.” I step back. “Tell Mom I said goodbye. I’ll call later so we can chat.”
But as I drive away, watching the beautiful colonial disappear in my rearview mirror, unease settles in my chest. He said not to worry about things that aren’t mine to carry.
But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Because whatever’s happening with my body is only part of the problem. My father— my anchor, my hero, my safe harbor— is dealing with something he won’t let me help with.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t know if he can fix it by himself.