Raven
Nothing about my father's house has changed.
The white siding still catches the last light of the evening. The porch swing hangs perfectly still, though I can't remember the last time he actually sat in it. A weathered wind chime turns lazily beside the front door, filling the quiet with soft, familiar notes.
Everything looks exactly as it always has. Only I don't.
The engine goes quiet. Sam's hand finds mine where it rests on my knee, his fingers threading through mine with an ease that needs no words.
He doesn't ask if I'm ready.
He already knows there isn't a way to be.
The porch boards creak beneath our feet, the sound as familiar as my own heartbeat. My father opens the door before we have a chance to knock. Warm air spills out around us. Dad smiles when he sees us. It lasts only a second. His eyes find my face, and his smile disappears.
Parents always know.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
He steps aside without a word.
The familiar living room wraps around me as we walk inside. My gaze goes straight to the photograph above the fireplace.
Mom.
She's smiling at the camera, frozen in a moment untouched by everything that came after.
Young.
Healthy.
Alive.
Dad follows my eyes.
He doesn't say anything.
Neither do I.
After a long silence, he motions toward the couch.
We sit.
Sam stays beside me, his hand resting lightly against my back.
My father lowers himself into the chair across from us, elbows braced on his knees, watching me the way he used to when I was a kid and trying to tell him something I didn’t want to say out loud.
“What is it?” he asks.
I draw in a slow breath. “I went to the doctor a few days ago.”
He nods once. “And?”
“I thought I might be pregnant.” His eyebrows lift slightly. Then he sees the rest of it on my face, and the hope drains out of his expression before I even say the words. “They ran some tests.”
I can’t make myself look away.
“I have cancer.”
He doesn’t move. His eyes stay on mine, searching my face as though there's still another sentence coming.
It never does.
“What kind?” he asks finally.
“Ovarian.”
His eyes close for a second.
Just a second.
When they open again, something in them has changed.
“How bad?”
“They caught it too late.”
“Raven.” His shoulders tense, the same way they used to when the doctors talked about my mother in hushed voices in the hospital hallways. “Tell me. How much time?”
Tears sting my eyes. “Not long enough.”
My father doesn't speak. He leans back slowly, one hand covering his mouth as his eyes fall to the floor. The silence stretches until his gaze lifts to the photograph above the fireplace. He holds her there for a long time before looking back at me.
“Wolf..." His voice is quiet. "Would you give us a minute?"
"Of course."
Sam leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead before giving my hand one last squeeze. The front door closes softly behind him.
Dad waits until we're alone.
"You're not doing treatment."
It isn't a question.
"No."
His eyes drift back to Mom's photograph. "They told your mother the same thing."
My throat tightens. "I remember."
He nods, almost absently. "She tried everything."
I close my eyes. I remember hospital rooms that smelled of antiseptic. Machines that never seemed to stop humming.
The way she grew smaller inside the bed until the blankets looked like they belonged to someone else.
The way Dad never stopped believing the next treatment might be the one that worked.
"I don't want that," I whisper. My voice trembles now. "I don't want Sam spending whatever time we have left sitting beside hospital beds, waiting for doctors who can't give us different answers."
I swallow hard.
"I don't want the last memories he has of me to be machines, and sickness, and watching me disappear."
Dad never looks away. "I know."
Those two words break something inside me. Because he doesn't say he'll change my mind. He doesn't tell me to fight harder. He doesn't promise everything will be okay.
He just understands.
The knowledge settles over us in a silence too heavy for words. Dad closes his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a slow, unsteady breath. When he opens them again, he simply stands.
The movement is slow, as though the years have settled onto his shoulders all at once.
When he reaches me, he gathers me into his arms the way he used to when I was little, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other wrapping tightly around my shoulders.
For a heartbeat, I'm ten years old again.
Safe.
Certain that as long as my father is holding me, nothing bad can happen.
I bury my face against his chest and let myself believe it anyway.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmurs.
The words break something inside me open.
The sob comes out of me sharp and helpless, the sound of it startling even to my own ears. I clutch at the front of his shirt.
His arms tighten around me. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
His hand moves slowly through my hair, the same quiet motion he used when I was small enough to sit in his lap while he told me everything would be okay.
He doesn’t say that now.
He just holds me.
For a long time.
Long enough that my breathing finally begins to slow, the sharp edge of the sobs fading into something softer and more exhausted.
His arms don’t loosen until the storm inside my chest burns itself out. Even then, he keeps one hand on the back of my neck like he isn’t ready to let me go completely.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at me. "Does Knox know?"
I nod. "Yes."
He closes his eyes briefly, absorbing it, before looking toward the front door where Sam stepped outside.
"He's a good man."
"He is."
Dad studies me for a long time.
When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. "I spent a long time trying to give your mother more days."
The words catch somewhere deep inside me.
"I know."
His eyes find mine again. "If I'd had one more..." He shakes his head gently. "I would've spent it holding her hand instead of waiting outside another treatment room."
Silence settles between us.
"You make the time count," he says. His thumb brushes beneath my eyes, just as it did when I was little. "You hear me?"
A tear slips free.
"I hear you."
He nods once.
Outside, the wind chime stirs in the evening breeze, its soft notes drifting through the open window.
This time, neither of us reaches for more time.
We hold on to what we already have.
Only then do I let myself mourn all the time we were never going to get.