Chapter 42
Willow
Waking up on my bedroom floor, surrounded by an empty bottle of whisky, a crumpled takeout box, and a pile of used tissues, isn't exactly how I wanted to start my morning.
I regret it, but yesterday was hard.
Every day has been hard since I found out about my dad's cancer, but it's so much worse now. He doesn't eat. Half the time, he doesn't even recognise me. The nurses keep him heavily dosed on morphine because the pain is so bad now.
When I look at him now, I struggle to see the man who raised me.
He won't be able to take me on midnight drives to the beach just because I miss the sound of the waves, or the times I would help him out at the garage, even if all I did was show him the new routine I learned at dance. He was the one person I gossiped with, and he lived for it.
I don't really have anyone else to lean on while going through this.
Mum's a bitch who thinks her next nail appointment is more important.
Sure, some of my dad's friends stop by now and then. They ask how I’m doing, offer those polite, sympathetic looks people give when they don't know what else to say.
But I guess that's just what decent people do. They ask because it's the right thing to ask.
Not because they're actually expecting an honest answer.
I walk down the corridor toward my dad's room, the one they moved him into for end-of-life care.
My eyes strained at the floor as I went, following the dull pattern of the tiles because it was easier than looking up and seeing the quiet pity on everyone's face.
I round the corner and walk straight into someone.
The impact knocks me back a step.
“Sorry,” I mumble automatically, lifting my head.
It's Sarah, one of his nurses. She's just closed the door to his room. Something about the way she's standing there makes my stomach twist.
Her expression is wrong.
“Is my dad okay?”
I ask every day now, even though I’m not sure what okay is anymore.
She clears her throat, her gaze roaming over me, and the sound seems to echo down the hallway.
“We tried to call you.”
My hands reach for my pockets. “My phone kind of died.” I wince. “I didn't realise until this morning.”
I briefly pull it out, turning it over.
“I don't have work today, so I was just going to charge it here and stay with him, like usual.” I go to move past her, but she reaches out and stops me.
Her eyes look glassy. Sad.
“Willow,” she says softly. “We tried to get a hold of you last night.”
She's already told me this.
“I’m so sorry,” she continues, her words filled with sympathy. “But your father passed away last night.”
No.
That can't be right.
He was alive when I left yesterday.
She's wrong. She's got the wrong person, clearly deluded from working the night shift.
“You've got it wrong. He wouldn't die without me.”
He wouldn't.
There's no way that he would leave me without me there. Not when I promised him.
“My dad is alive,” I insist. “It's not time.”
She's lying to me. It's all just a cruel joke.
Why can't I see properly?
Everything in front of me feels warped somehow, like the world has tilted and I can't find my balance in it. The corridor blurs, colours bleeding together, shapes shifting. The only thing that comes clearly is the frantic pounding of my own heart, hammering so hard in my chest it almost hurts.
I know the door is closed.
I can see that much.
But I refuse to believe her. I can't.
My body moves before my mind catches up. I don't hear her behind me—the voice soft, apologetic, saying something I don't understand.
She's mistaken.
I push the door open.
I’m prepared to see him alive. I know he will be confused and tired; he always is. But he will be alive.
Just… alive.
The moment I look at his bed, something inside me freezes solid.
He's lying there.
Perfectly still.
Too still.
My eyes trace over him slowly, like my brain is trying to make sense of what it's seeing. His eyes are closed, his face peaceful in a way that feels wrong. The constant tension that used to pull at his features—the pain that twisted his mouth and creased his brow—is gone.
He doesn't look like he's hurting anymore.
But he also doesn't look like he's breathing.
No.
No, that's not possible.
He was alive.
The room feels… empty. Dead. Even with the fresh flowers on the windowsill and the pale sunlight slipping through the curtains. It's lifeless.
“Dad,” I whisper.
There's nothing. No movement, no sound.
This has to be a dream.
That's the only explanation. Some horrible, twisted dream my brain has conjured up after another bad night.
“Dad.” The word slips out again, desperate this time.
I move closer to the bed, my chest tightening with every step and my legs unsteady.
“Dad.”
It's the only thing my mind seems capable of saying now.
Dad.
Dad.
Dad.
I stand at the side of his bed, looking down at him. The most amazing man who raised me and used to carry me on his shoulders everywhere, laughing too loudly at his terrible jokes.
He looks fragile.
Like the life that used to fill him has been quietly erased.
My hand trembles as I reach out and wrap my fingers around his.
His skin feels thin to the touch. And cold.
So cold.
The chill crawls straight into my bones.
That's not right. If he's cold… and he isn't breathing… if he isn't answering me—
“Daddy,” I whisper, the word breaking apart as it leaves me.
My vision blurs completely as I fumble for his heartbeat. My fingers shake uncontrollably; I can’t keep them still as I press them to his wrist, searching for that familiar rhythm that has always been there: steady, reassuring, alive.
But there's nothing.
A cold dread creeps up my spine, slow and suffocating. I move my hand to his chest, pressing harder this time, willing—begging—for that faint thud of his heart beneath my palm.
Please.
Please.
But the silence beneath my hand is absolute.
No warmth.
No movement.
No life.
The realisation crashes into me like a freight train.
He's really gone.
A sharp, painful gasp leaves me as the thought slams into me harder than anything else. He was alone.
My stomach drops so violently that I feel sick.
I wasn't there.
I wasn't sitting beside him like I promised. I wasn't holding his hand or whispering to him that it was okay, that he could rest now.
I left him.
My lip wobbles as tears spill over, hot and relentless, blurring everything in front of me. It feels like something is ripping my insides apart.
“Dad,” I gasp, his name breaking out of me in a fractured cry.
But it falls useless in this empty room.
He doesn't answer me, and he never will again.
My legs give out before I even realise what's happening, and suddenly I’m climbing onto the bed, desperate and clumsy, collapsing beside him like the little girl who used to run to him when the world felt too big and scary.
I curl against him instinctively, my arms wrapping tightly around his frail body as if I can hold him here, as if I can stop this from being real.
“Daddy.” I sob more, pressing my face into his shoulder.
All I want is for him to wrap his arms around me, brush the hair out of my face, or say my name and that it's all going to be okay, but he doesn't.
The silence is unbearable.
“I’m sorry.” I wept through my tears. “I’m so sorry.”
The guilt overtakes every part of me. He fought so hard against something that was slowly stealing pieces of him away. And when his body finally gave up… I wasn't there.
Cancer has finally taken my dad.
And with him, it feels like it's taken a piece of me I didn't realise I could lose.
I can't bring myself to think about the years ahead. Every ordinary day with him won't be the same without his voice. I don't want to picture a world without him in it.
Life is cruel.
Crueller than I ever understood before this moment.
No one deserves to be taken by this horrible disease that strips a person away piece by piece until there's nothing left.
And yet, it still took him.
It took the man who raised me—the man who loved me enough for both of us, the man who fought harder than anyone I have ever known. Now he’s gone from this world, and I have to live without him.