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As soon as we step outside, Dad says, “Remember that day you signed off early from work and came by the house?

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I feel like you were trying to tell me something without telling me something.”

“No. It was—”

“You’re having a child, son,” he interrupts me to say. “I would’ve expected you to be more excited than this, especially with all the struggles you’ve been having lately. So, level with me. What’s really going on?”

I grimace and cross my arms, seemingly making myself breathe although it’s supposed to be voluntary. I promised myself that I wouldn’t tell anyone this, but he’s my Dad and I—I have to keep it a hundred with him.

I say, “Dad, if I tell you this, you cannot tell a soul—not even Mom. If you don’t think you can handle that, let me know right now.”

“I can handle it. Now, tell me, what’s going on?”

“The cancer is out of remission.”

He releases a defeated sigh and drops his head. All he can do is shake it from side-to-side, “No.”

“Yes.”

“What did the doctor say? What’s the prognosis?”

“He says I have about four to six months, if that.”

“No. No. No. This can’t be.”

“Dad—”

“It can’t be, Judah. You’re having a child for goodness sake!”

“Dad, please keep your voice down.”

“What about—what about treatment?”

“The tumor is more aggressive than it was before. According to the doctor, this type of recurrence is more resistant to treatment. The headaches have returned. I can’t focus at work, so I’m going to have to give that up. I get dizzy when I drive so I haven’t been doing much of that either.”

“But you can’t just not do anything. You have to fight.”

“And do what, Dad? Have my wife watch me suffer through those treatments? You remember how they were. I was sick as a dog every single day. The vomiting, the headaches…I was nearly immobile. Why would I go through all of that again when the doctor is telling me my chances of survival are less than ten percent?”

“Then get a second opinion.”

“I’ve already got a second and third opinion. They’re all telling me the same thing.”

“And you’re keeping all of this from Autumn?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s pregnant. I don’t want her worrying about me. Even if she wasn’t pregnant, I don’t want her to worry.”

My father pinches a tear from his right eye and says, “She knows what she signed up for, son. You shouldn’t keep this from her.”

“I don’t want people grieving over me while I’m alive. I want them to see me living. Thriving. Loving on my family.”

“And what about when your health starts declining? You won’t be able to hide it then.”

“I guess I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I’m not at the bridge. I feel fine.”

Dad shakes his head and walks over to me. He throws his arms around me and pulls me into his embrace. “You’re my one and only. My God…” he says as he breaks down. “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Dad? This isn’t your fault.”

“Somehow, I feel like it is,” he says, wiping his eyes again. “I feel like there is something I could’ve done to prevent this from happening.”

“There isn’t anything you or anyone else could’ve done. It’s the hand I was dealt. I’m going to play it ‘til the end.”

“I love you, son.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

He dries his eyes before we head back inside. I kiss my mother on the temple and then I take my wife by the hand and walk back home with a heaviness in my chest.