The day my mom started chemotherapy was the same day my father packed a suitcase and walked out of our lives. Years later, I found him again in a place neither of us had ever expected. I was 14, and my brother Jason was eight, the day our father decided he wasn’t built for sickness.
My mom was upstairs in her bedroom, bald and shaking under three blankets after her second round of chemotherapy (chemo). Stage 3 breast cancer. Jason and I sat halfway down the staircase, our backs pressed to the railing.
We weren’t supposed to be listening, but the house was quiet enough that every sound carried. Then we heard it. Zzzzip.
The sound of Dad closing his suitcase.
Jason grabbed my arm. “Kelly… is he leaving?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, even though deep down I already did.
Dad’s voice drifted down, calm and cold. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
Mom said something weak from upstairs that we couldn’t hear clearly. Dad’s voice grew louder.
“I want a partner, not a patient. I AM NOT A NURSE!”
Jason’s eyes filled with tears. Before I even thought about it, I ran upstairs to our parents’ bedroom.
Dad stood by the door, wearing his expensive gray coat. His suitcase rested beside him. He looked annoyed to see me.
“Kelly, go back to your room.”
“Please don’t go,” I said, grabbing his sleeve. Dad didn’t answer. Instead, he adjusted his silver Rolex watch as if he were checking the time for a meeting.
Jason ran up the stairs and grabbed Dad’s leg. “Daddy, Mom’s sick!”
Dad gently removed his hands, as if Jason were a stranger’s kid in a grocery store. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.
An hour later, he was gone. The door closed behind him with finality. Mom called us upstairs.
She looked smaller somehow. Fragile. Her head was wrapped in a pale blue scarf, and her eyes were glassy from exhaustion.
“Where’s your father?” she asked. Jason looked at me. I forced the words out.
“He left.”
Mom closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, she didn’t cry. She simply nodded.
“Alright.”
***
Within a month, Dad had moved into a luxury condo across town with his 24-year-old personal trainer. Her name was Brittany. We found that out from one of Mom’s friends who saw them together at a restaurant.
Within another month, Dad’s mortgage payments stopped. Mom tried to hide the letters from the bank, but I saw them stacked on the kitchen counter. Red stamps.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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