Page 21 of Scarlet Thorns

I must speak to Dad.

The drive to my parents’ house takes forty minutes through Boston’s maze of one-way streets and construction zones. My father has always been my safe harbor— but asking for help feels like admitting I can’t handle my own life.

He’s a doctor, for God’s sake!

He’ll know what to do.

I can’t understand why I’ve been so reluctant to approach him. He handles this sort of thing all the time. He’d have no problem with it coming from his own daughter.

Their house sits in one of Brookline’s quieter neighborhoods, a beautiful colonial with pristine landscaping that speaks of financial stability and professional success. The kind of home that says “respected doctor” to anyone who passes by. I’ve always felt proud pulling into this driveway, knowing I come from this solid foundation.

But as I approach the front door, voices carry from the kitchen window— raised, tense, unmistakably argumentative.

“Igor, my payment was declined again. We are in the red!” Mom’s voice carries a strain I rarely hear, sharp with frustration and something that sounds like fear.

I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, guilt and curiosity warring in my chest. I shouldn’t be listening to this. But I can’t seem to make myself knock either.

“Don’t worry, I forgot to transfer money. I’ll fix it tomorrow.” Dad’s response is casual, dismissive in a way that doesn’t match the gravity in Mom’s tone.

“You’re a respected doctor with thirty years of practice. This shouldn’t be happening!” There’s desperation bleeding through her words now. “The mortgage, the car payments, my mother’s care facility— we can’t keep juggling everything on credit.”

My stomach drops. Financial problems? Dad has always been the picture of professional success, his practice thriving,money never a concern that we discussed as a family. What’s happening that I don’t know about?

I finally manage to turn the knob and step inside, my footsteps deliberately loud as I enter. The argument dies instantly, voices cutting off mid-sentence like someone hit a mute button.

“Ilona?” Mom appears in the kitchen doorway, hastily wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her smile is bright, but I can tell it’s forced. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

“Hi, Mom.” I study her face, noting the redness around her eyes, the forced cheerfulness that doesn’t mask her distress. “Everything okay?”

“Of course. Just… morning coffee talk.” She waves a hand dismissively. “You know how your father and I can get into debates about household budgets.”

The lie sits uncomfortably between us. Whatever I overheard wasn’t a casual debate— it was genuine panic disguised as marital bickering.

Dad emerges from the kitchen, and his transformation is remarkable. Gone is whatever tension was in his voice moments ago, replaced by his familiar warm smile and open arms. “There’s my girl. What brings you by so early?”

I let him fold me into a hug that smells like coffee and the expensive cologne he’s worn since I was little. For a moment, I’m tempted to pretend I didn’t hear anything, to let them maintain whatever illusion they’re protecting me from.

But the cramping chooses that moment to flare again, a sharp reminder of why I came here.

“I wanted to talk to you,” I say quietly. “About some health stuff I’ve been dealing with.”

Dad’s expression shifts immediately from casual affection to professional concern. “What kind of health stuff?”

Mom excuses herself with another forced smile, claiming she needs to return some phone calls. She kisses my forehead before disappearing upstairs, but I catch the worried glance she exchanges with Dad. Whatever’s happening between them, they’re united in not wanting me to know about it.

“Dad,” I begin, then stop, not knowing how to go on without sounding like a drama queen. How do I describe symptoms that have no clear pattern or obvious cause?

“Sit.” He guides me to the kitchen table, already slipping into doctor mode. “Tell me everything.”

So I do. I tell him about the pain that’s gotten progressively worse over the past two months. About cycles that have become unpredictable— sometimes three weeks apart, sometimes missed, and sometimes lasting for far too long. About exhaustion that makes simple tasks feel overwhelming, pain that shoots through my pelvis at random moments, the way intimacy has become uncomfortable and then impossible.

Dad listens without interruption, his expression growing more serious with each symptom I describe. When I awkwardly mention the pain during sex, his jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t make me feel embarrassed or ashamed.

“Can you lean back for me?” he asks gently. “I want to check a few things.”

His examination is thorough but gentle— pressing carefully along my abdomen, noting when I wince or tense. His hands are clinical, professional, but I can see worry building behind his eyes.

“Does this hurt?” He applies gentle pressure to my lower right side.