With my father, there was nothing to bargain for and nothing left to prove. His hands were thinner, his voice weaker, but his eyes held the same unshaken warmth I’d run from as a child. As I wiped his forehead and listened to his ragged breathing, shame burned through me, then softened into something else. He didn’t ask where I’d been. He only squeezed my hand, as if to say: you’re here now, and that is enough.
Silent Father, Final Choice
