How can Papa, the only father figure I’ve ever known, the man who practically raised me from a pigtailed toddler to adulthood, the man who could take on anything the world threw at him and live to tell about it . . . have such little time to live?

In that moment, all the should’ve, could’ve, and would’ves flash in front of my eyes. It’s as if everything I expected to experience with Papa has turned into a puddle that’s evaporating quicker than I’d ever considered.

But the worst part is, the one thing he’s wanted to see the most is likely to never happen, and that looms like a dark umbrella over my breaking heart.

When’s my beautiful little flower getting married so I can walk her down the aisle?

To say marriage is a huge tradition in my family is like saying a tsunami is a little wet. An understatement of such magnitude, it’s laughable, especially for my grandparents, who look forward to the next generation of weddings with teary smiles and proclamations of the continuation of their legacy with another branch on the family tree.

Hell, most of the women in my family are married off before they’re old enough to drink alcohol. In fact, I’m probably the only woman in my family, at age twenty-six, who isn’t married with a wagonload of kids.

Due to my busy career, I’ve been single for as long as I can remember, although I’ve always dreamed about having this big fairytale wedding. I used to use Nana’s curtains as a makeshift veil and Papa would pretend to walk me down the aisle. I want him to do that for real, hold my hand as I greet my husband-to-be, bless us with a marriage as long and happy as his and Nana’s has been, and see that I’ve finally grown into the woman he always told me I could be. Successful, loved, happy.

Now it’s never going to happen.

As if sensing my tormented thoughts, Dr. Lee adds, “If there’s anything you need to say or anything important left for you to do with your grandfather, I’d do it very soon. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

Gee, thanks for the guilt trip, Doc.

Whatever else the doctor says fades off into the background as I watch Nana and Papa bicker through the glass window, happier now and blissfully unaware of the countdown looming.

In that moment, denial surges and I clench my fists.

This can’t happen. I won’t let it.

Six months to a year?

I can make it work.

Suddenly determined, a feeling of resolution washes over me as a plan formulates in my mind.