Chapter 17
Dad survived.
Barely.
But he survived.
Cancer left him weaker.
Slower.
More honest.
He moved into a smaller house near mine.
Not because he could not live alone.
Because he finally admitted he did not want to.
Ethan called it “emotional growth with property taxes.”
Our family dinners became sacred.
Every Sunday.
No excuses.
Dad cooked badly.
Ethan argued about everything.
I brought dessert.
Sometimes we invited families from the center.
Sometimes Dr. Wallace came.
Sometimes Nina.
The table grew.
One night, Dad raised a glass.
“To Maya,” he said.
I groaned.
“No speeches.”
He ignored me.
“For teaching this family that truth is not cruelty.”
Ethan lifted his glass.
“And that older brothers should be allowed to shove villains into walls.”
“Legally questionable,” I said.
“Emotionally correct,” he replied.
We laughed.
May you like
The kind of laughter that did not hide pain.
The kind that carried it gently.
