Page 111 of Cruel Obsession

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything more, and hurry down the corridor when he releases me, feeling his eyes track every step until I turn the corner.

***

The oncology ward always fills me with despair.

I’ve grown too familiar with these corridors, these sounds—the soft beep of monitors, the squeak of nurses’ shoes, the hushed conversations that stop when you walk past.

Dad lies in bed, his skin sallow against the white sheets. The treatments have taken their toll, hollowing his cheeks, thinning his hair. His eyes flutter open when I take his hand.

“Hey, butterfly,” he whispers, using his old nickname for me.

“Hey, Dad.” I squeeze his fingers, alarmed by how fragile they feel. “How’s the food here?”

“Terrible.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But the nurses are pretty.”

I laugh softly, playing our familiar game. “Always the charmer.”

“I get by.” His gaze clouds, lips twisting in pain.

“Dad?” Alarm fills me. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

“No, sweetheart.” He pats my hand. “Just tired, that’s all.”

I don’t believe him, but I don’t try to argue. “Maybe you should get some more rest. I’ll stay here with you.” The thought of leaving now fills me with dread. What if I go and he slips away while I’m not here?

He nods slightly, already drifting back to sleep. I sit with him until his breathing deepens, my thumb tracing the back of his hand.

I look around the small, sterile room with its institutional furniture and thin curtains. Nothing like the opulent surroundings I clean daily at Ashwater Heights, where the bathroom fixtures probably need to be insured. The contrast makes my situation painfully clear—I’m trapped between worlds, belonging to neither.

When Dad’s oncologist, Dr. Klein, arrives, he gestures for me to step outside. In the hallway, his expression tells me everything before he speaks.

“The cancer has metastasized to his lymph nodes,” he says, his voice clinical but kind. “The current treatment protocol is no longer effective.”

My throat constricts, chest tightening like someone’s wrapping a fist around my lungs. “What does that mean?”

“We have a few options to try—more aggressive chemotherapy, targeted radiation. But I want to be honest with you. His body is weak, and the prognosis isn’t good.”

My heart stutters. “And if those don’t work?”

“Then we discuss palliative care. Find ways to make him comfortable. He could go home if he prefers.”

The words crash through me, shattering whatever composure I’ve maintained. “Home to die?” I ask sharply.

Dr. Klein nods, his eyes sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Ms. McLeod. We’ll do everything we can.”

I thank him mechanically, my mind already racing ahead to costs, to time off, to what this means. Borrowing more money from Arkady would be unthinkable after what I’ve learned. But what choice would I have?

The walls of my gilded cage contract further.

A nurse walks past, pushing a trolley; she shoots me a concerned look. I straighten my shoulders. There’s no sense in falling apart now. Dad needs me.

I return to Dad’s room, settling into the chair beside his bed. He sleeps fitfully, his breathing labored. Each rasp cuts through me. I stay until visiting hours end, until the nurse gently suggests I go home and rest.

Outside, the air bites through my jacket. I order an Uber, watching the little car icon crawl across the map on my phone. When it arrives, I slide into the back seat and give the driver Dad’s address. He doesn’t try to make conversation—thank God for small mercies.

The city slides past the window in a blur of streetlights and shuttered shops. I stare out numbly, trying not to think about lymph nodes or metastasis or palliative care. Trying not to imagine Dad choosing to die at home rather than fight treatments that might not work.

The Uber stops outside the familiar suburban home. I pay through the app and step onto the pavement, staring up at the dark windows. How many nights did I spend here with Debra, the two of us sprawled on the living room floor while Dad pretended not to notice we were watching films too old for us? And what has this home become since then?