Somehow he was thinking clearly enough to know that going into the details of his diagnosis over voice mail wasn’t a good idea. So he waited patiently those four hours until I fished my phone out of my purse after a night of barhopping. The entire staff at the Portland restaurant I was managing at the time was out celebrating after hosting a stressful corporate party. I was about to indulge in my third shot of tequila when I happened to glance at my phone, the voice mail alert flashing on the screen.

And then when I listened to his message—his voice a mix of love and worry—the floor fell out from under me.

Tears tumble down my face, soaking the pillow underneath my head, but I don’t sob. I don’t want to make any noise that would disturb Mom. Instead I swallow back every almost-sob that grips the base of my throat and stare at the ceiling.

Despite my tipsy state that night, the serious tone of his voice mail sobered me up real quick. I never knew my fingers could fly across a phone screen that fast. And then I was crouched down in the hallway of some random bar because the corner by the bathrooms was the quietest spot I could find.

And then he answered. Hearing his voice was comfort and terror all at once.

“Nikki-Nack!” He practically sang his nickname for me on the other line. I could tell he was smiling.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” My voice broke before he said anything because, despite the joy in his voice, I just knew. It was so, so bad.

Shoving my face into my pillow, I let out a soft cry. After that call, I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t focus.

The only thing I was certain of in that moment was that I needed to be with him for however long he had left. That night, I packed my bags and told my boss at the restaurant, who was an old culinary school pal that brought me on to manage, what had happened. He and my other workmates were nothing but sympathetic and understanding. Told me to take my time and that when I was ready to come back, to contact them. I threw together a post on Craigslist to rent out my room in the house I shared with two of my friends so I wouldn’t leave them high and dry. The morning after, I was gone.

I thought I’d be back. Portland was where I went to culinary school and earned a business degree. It’s where I learned the ropes of the restaurant industry. I loved my work and my life there.