I took my stepfather to the emergency room early one cold, silent morning—the kind of morning where the air itself feels heavy, where the world moves slowly and everything seems to wait for something you can’t yet name.
The sky was barely beginning to lighten when he woke me, pressing one trembling hand against his chest and insisting he was “fine,” even as sweat rolled down his temples and his breath shuddered in uneven bursts.
There was a stubbornness in his voice, the same stubbornness he carried through most of his life, but fear flickered beneath it. I didn’t argue. I simply guided him to the car, grabbed his coat, and drove.
