My voice broke.
“And I’m sorry I called you a loser.”
For a moment, he simply looked at me.
Then he smiled.
“I always knew you’d come back,” he whispered.
He paused to catch his breath.
“I know the kid I raised.”
Those words broke something inside me.
I called my mother immediately.
I told her what had happened.
I begged her to help.
But her response was cold.
“If you’re choosing him,” she said, “don’t bother coming back.”
I stared at the phone in disbelief.
In that moment, the illusion I’d built around my mother finally disappeared.
The wealth I’d admired suddenly seemed meaningless.
The beautiful house, expensive clothes, jewelry and cars couldn’t compare to the man lying in that hospital bed.
So I stayed.
I slept on the hospital floor beside my father’s bed.
I brought him food when he could eat.
