Heartbreak
A heavy silence filled the air—still, vast, and without a trace of sound.
Then came a soft, confused voice:"Where am I? And what am I doing here?"
I looked into my son's eyes and responded gently, "You drank poison, Mike. You tried to take your own life."
He turned his head away and muttered, "What's the point of living with one parent who doesn't love me?"
I stood frozen, unable to speak. I didn't want to say anything that might further traumatize him. But deep inside, I questioned myself. Had I been too harsh? Or perhaps too soft? Was I pampering him too much?
I considered the idea of enrolling him in a special school. But then I feared it would appear as though I was favoring one child over the other—even though they were twins. The thought weighed heavily on me.
Suddenly, I recalled the promise I had made to my wife: to love both of our children equally.
I turned to Mike and spoke sincerely:"Mike, my son... you are the eldest. You are my first child. Why would you try to leave me like this? Why do you want to break me before my time?"
His response was haunting:"Then tell Mom to come. Tell her where she is and that I need her. She would care more than you do."
I felt a sharp pain in my chest. I wanted, more than anything, to finally tell him the truth—but before I could speak, there was a sudden knock at the door.
The doctor entered, performed a few routine checkups, and then quietly asked me to follow him.This must be serious, I thought.
He led me directly to his office. Standing near his chair was a young, poised, and elegant woman. From her demeanor, I quickly assumed she was the health counselor.
Once we were seated, the doctor didn't hesitate. His voice was steady but solemn.
"You've been diagnosed with liver cancer," he said. "You only have a few years left to live."
The words shattered me. I sat motionless, the air thick around me.
The health counselor stepped in with compassion. "We understand this is difficult, but don't give up hope," she said. "Medical researchers are working tirelessly on treatments. Until then, you must take care of yourself—eat well, avoid stress and conflict."
But that wasn't what terrified me the most.
The real monster wasn't the disease.
It was the question of how I would ever explain to my children that their father was running out of time.
Just then, a loud cough echoed from the doorway. The doctor walked over and opened the door—But there was no one there.
He paused, glanced down the corridor, then turned back. "Probably just a passerby," he said calmly.
But deep inside, I wasn't so sure.