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“It’s serious,” she admits softly. “They’re doing everything they can, but they’ve warned us to prepare for the worst, just in case.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. The space feels too small, the air too thin. “What?”

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t?—

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I whisper, my voice breaking.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” she says, and I can hear the guilt in her voice. “You’ve been through so much lately... I thought we could handle it. But now... I think you should come.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Take care of yourself first, Raven,” she says gently. “You don’t sound well, and the last thing we need is for you to get worse.”

I promise her I’ll rest, but as the call ends, I know I won’t. My father is all I can think about now, his stubborn pride, and his refusal to seek help until it was too late. The thought of losing him is unbearable, and for the first time in years, I feel truly helpless.

I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, tears streaming down my face. Not this too. This is just too much. The phone slips from my hand, and I bury my face in my knees, wishing I could do something to fix everything that's wrong.

Eventually, I wipe the tears from my face, the motion shaky and clumsy as I try to gather myself. My chest feels tight, each breath shallow, but I force myself to stand. Be strong, I tell myself. Be strong for him.

I wipe the tears from my face, forcing myself to stand despite the weakness in my legs. The cold bathroom tiles feel like they are freezing my feet as I quickly return to my room. My fingers tremble as I call for a taxi. I’m in luck, there is a taxi cruising back from another job and can be with me in five minutes. Grabbing my purse, I pull on a coat and rush to the door. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a mix of desperation and exhaustion. I don’t care how late it is or how weak I feel. My father needs me.

As I cross the foyer, I feel the chill of the house rush into my open coat and seep through my thin nightgown. My mind is in a haze, too frantic to think clearly, but as I reach the front door, something clicks. Something is not right. I stop in my tracks, glance down and realize with a sinking feeling that I’m still in my house slippers—no proper shoes to shield me from the wintry wind blowing outside.

For a moment, I hesitate. My fingers clutch my purse and I consider going back to grab my boots. But the thought of going all the way up those stairs again in my condition. No. Anyway, the taxi has arrived outside, and every second feels like a wasted eternity.

As I open the front door, Nora’s voice stops me. “Mrs. Jackson!” she calls out.

I grip the doorknob tightly and turn to face her. “Mrs. Jackson, where are you going? You’re not dressed for this weather!” Her voice is laced with concern, her eyes wide as she approaches.

“I’m fine, Nora. I’m just going to see my dad. He’s not well,” I say with as much bravado as I can muster, but my voice sounds hollow, unconvincing, even to my own ears.

“Mrs. Jackson, wait?—”

But I don’t give her a chance to finish. Pushing the door open, I step into the biting cold. The wind hits me like a slap, harsh and unrelenting. My slip and open coat do nothing to shield me, and I shiver violently as I rush down the steps. I hear Nora calling after me, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

The driver steps out gallantly to open the door for me. “Are you all right?” he asks, frowning at my state.

“I’m fine. Please just drive as quickly as you can to the hospital,” I plead, climbing into the backseat.

The warmth of the car is a relief, but the cold has already seeped into my bones, and I can’t stop trembling. I clutch my purse tightly in my lap, my fingers stiff and numb. The driver pulls away and I let out a shaky breath and try to steady myself.

I don’t want to arrive in such a state that my mother starts worrying about me.

The streets are eerily quiet, the wind howling as it whips through the town. Snow flurries dance in the air. I watch them through the window with a strange detachment.

A harsh cough escapes my lips, and I press a hand to my chest, wincing at the sharp pain that follows. The cold has settled deep, each breath feeling heavier than the last. I ignore it, willing my body to cooperate. There’s no room for weakness now.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his brows furrowed. “You sure, you’re okay, Miss?”

“Yes, just a little cough. Don’t worry it’s not catching,” I reply with a small smile.

But I’m not fine. The truth is, I feel worse with every passing second. The chill in my chest spreads, a suffocating feeling that makes it harder to breathe. I try to focus on the countryside flashing by, anything to distract myself from my growing physical discomfort.

I think of my poor father, his face, lined with age and worry. His hands, calloused from years of hard work. The thought of him lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, makes my chest tighten further.

The idea of losing my father is unbearable.

Tears blur my vision again, and this time, I don’t bother to wipe them away. Let them fall. Let the cold take me if it must. All that matters is getting to him. All that matters is being there.