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My father’s illness had put a lot of things that I wanted to do on hold.
Andrew nods. “If you need any help with that, let me know. Renovations and real estate are kind of my thing.”
I smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” But, inside, I know I won’t ask for help.
This arrangement has an expiration date, and the last thing I want is to start depending on Andrew. A year from now, he won’t be in my life. It’s best if I continue doing things the way I always have—on my own.
“I’ll be in my office downstairs if you need me,” he says, before shutting the door behind him.
I begin unpacking a few essentials, trying to settle it all into a new place. It doesn’t take too long. I didn’t bring all that much with me. Once I feel like it’s settled enough to feel comfortable, I turn to leave.
Andrew’s been kind. In ways I didn’t expect. But as much as I appreciate it, I have to keep reminding myself of the boundaries. Downstairs, I head to his office and peer in through the slightly ajar door. He looks up from his laptop.
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” I tell him.
“See you on Saturday,” he says solemnly. “Oh! Before I forget, here are the keys for the house, along with the gate remote.”
I cut across the room. As I take the keys he’s holding out, our fingers brush and a jolt of awareness goes through me. I quickly take the keys and flash him a quick smile.
“Thanks,” I say, a little unsettled by my reaction to his touch. But then it dawns on me that it’s the first time that Andrew and I have ever touched. The tension between us is bound to make things awkward when we come into contact.
I shut the door behind me and head toward the front, where Bruno and Bear are lazily sprawled out. I give them each a quick scratch behind the ears before I step out.
This is really happening. I’m moving out of my apartment, stepping into a life with Andrew—a man I barely know. We’re going to share a home, a life together, for a whole year. It feels surreal, and not in a good way.
The sadness I’ve been trying to suppress all day creeps up on me. I’m getting married for practical reasons. Not for love, not for some magical, romantic connection.
As much as I’d convinced myself that this was the right decision, there’s a hollow ache at the thought of it. How would it feel to be truly in love? To marry a man who loved me, someone I loved back?
The thought lingers, unwanted, and I push it away as quickly as it came. There’s no point in dwelling on what ifs. This marriage is about responsibility, about saving my family’s business.
My family are the most important thing in my life. I’d do anything for them. Even this.
As I pull up to my parents’ house, the familiar comfort of home settles around me, although my thoughts are far from settled.
I park and walk inside, my mind still swirling with feelings I don’t have the energy to process. The house is quiet, and I head straight to my father’s suite.
The door is partially open, and I see my mother inside with the nurse, both of them standing by my father’s bedside. The sight makes my heart clench. My mother looks worried, her brow furrowed as she watches the nurse take Dad’s temperature.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping into the room, my voice laced with panic.
“He’s got a bit of a fever,” my mother says quietly, not looking away from my father. “The doctor said we should keep an eye on him.”
I move closer, feeling a wave of worry rise in my chest. I reach out and touch his forehead—it's warm, too warm. My pulse quickens with fear.
The nurse, sensing my anxiety, offers a calm smile. “He’ll be okay. It’s happened before, and the fever went right back down. We’ll keep monitoring him closely.”
I nod, trying to ease the tension inside me, but it doesn’t work. Seeing my father like this, so still, so vulnerable – it tugs at something deep inside me. I kneel beside his bed and take his hand, squeezing it gently, even though I know he can’t feel it.
“Please be okay,” I murmur.
My mother stands beside me, her eyes filled with the same unspoken worry. We’ve been through so much together, but, moments like this remind me how fragile everything is.
What if he doesn’t make it? What if he never comes out of this coma?
I can’t think like this. I can’t lose hope. I push away all the ‘what ifs’ that seem to haunt me these days. This is what I’m doing it for—my family. And I would do it all over again, no matter how hard it gets.
I lean over and press a soft kiss to my father’s cheek, the warmth of his skin sending another pang of worry through me. But I straighten up, forcing myself to stay strong. He needs me to be strong. We all do.