But that was before I saw how rapidly Dad declined and how gutted Mom was at losing her life partner. I couldn’t fly back to Oregon and just pick up where I left off. I couldn’t leave Mom to fend for herself, grief-stricken and with next to no savings after spending most of it on medical treatment for Dad.

My mind flutters to that last week he was in the hospital, when I sat next to his bedside, holding his hand. I bite my tongue, staving off the next sob that surely won’t be as quiet. Behind the dark of my closed eyes, I remember how he smiled up at me from his hospital bed, despite the unimaginable physical pain he was in.

“Take care of your mom, Nikki-Nack. Okay?”

I nodded, promising him I would.

And then his smile turned wistful and sad. “Do a better job than I did at the end.”

I scolded him, told him he had no right to say that, that he always did an excellent job taking care of her and me. Every word was true. He always had a steady job, worked long hours so she could stay home with me until I went to grade school. And he was even able to save enough to make her dream come true: retire in Maui.

It’s almost funny how one trip to the doctor, one phone call, one evil cluster of cells changed all of that.

But I promised him. Taking care of Mom and carrying out his food truck dream is the least I could do after every single wonderful thing he did for us.

I play the message once more, wishing I could call him right now.

I take it back. I don’t want the conversation; I want my dad. I want him here right now. If he were here, Mom and I wouldn’t be bickering so much. If he were here right now, we wouldn’t be stuck in a food truck together for eight hours most days, working our tails off to earn back all the money we spent to keep him alive just a little bit longer. He passed away three months after he was diagnosed.

Deep breaths ease me to a point where I can think clearly once more.

One thing’s certain: I could never survive a pain like that again. It’s why I impose days off for Mom like a drill sergeant. It’s why I have no friends, no dates, no social life whatsoever. I can’t handle another death, another loss, another person leaving me.

Minutes later I sit up in bed, forcing myself out of that familiar hole of agony and despair that gets harder and harder to crawl out of every time I let myself dip in. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and hope I’ve exhausted myself enough to sleep.

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