It felt so unfair.
I'd been abandoned and yet, when they needed me, I would show up for them, foregoing my own feelings.
Why?
Because they were on their death beds, and if I allowed my feelings to rule, I was sure to regret it later.
That's what the voice in my head kept saying.
It was like history was repeating itself. This was the same thing with dad. He'd called me when he was dying, after having abandoned me for over four years. I had to force myself to forgive him. To let it go because I believed what mattered most was a relationship with him, no matter how short.
Only to find out after his death that he'd chosen to save an embezzler over keeping me.
And yet, I had no choice but to still forgive him. He was dead after all.
"Doctor, how is he?"
My mother asked when the doctor approached us.
"I'm so sorry ma'am." She hesitated before speaking again. "Your husband is comatose."
