The Writer Asks A Stupid Question

“Papa, you know she’d be disappointed if you gave up,” I croaked, hoping that I didn’t sound as bad as I felt.

“I know…I’m so glad you’re here,” papa said, smiling. “You don’t know what it means to me.”

“And I’d just leave you? What kind of a daughter would I be? I asked, searching his withered face.

“I don’t know…sometimes…I feel like I haven’t been a good enough father.”

Anger flared in me. “That’s crap and you know it. You’re the best dad anyone could ask for!”

“That’s nice…to hear…” papa said, wheezing.

“Are you feeling alright?” I perked up, and then smiled goofily. “What a wrong question…”

“It’s alright,” papa laughed halfheartedly. “I know what you mean.”

I heard the door behind me creak open, and I turned my head – I saw a doctor, tall and lanky in his white uniform, a small notepad clasped in his hands.

“And you would be?” the doctor asked, eying me as if I was an intruder.

“She’s my daughter, Dr. Parks.”

“I see…nice to meet you.”

I stood from my seat.

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