“Sit down,” I said, my voice colder than it had ever been.
He frowned. “What’s with the tone?”
I told him everything. The symptoms. The hospital. The diagnosis. The urgent need for surgery within days.
For a moment, something like guilt flickered across his face. Then it hardened into defensiveness.
“Cancer? At fifteen? That’s ridiculous. They probably misdiagnosed her. You’re overreacting again, Elena. Always running to doctors for every little thing.”
I stood up slowly.
“I took her while you were at work. The scans are clear. Our daughter has cancer, Robert. And you dismissed her pain for months.”
He scoffed. “Teenagers complain about everything. How was I supposed to know?”
“Because you’re her father,” I snapped. “Because you’re supposed to care.”
The argument escalated quickly. He accused me of being dramatic. I accused him of neglect. By the end, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
That night, I sat by Maya’s bedside as she slept, holding her hand and making promises to God I intended to keep.
---
**The Long Road**
The next weeks were a blur of hospitals, specialists, and fear.
Maya underwent surgery to remove the tumor, followed by aggressive chemotherapy. The side effects were brutal — hair loss, nausea, exhaustion that left her bedridden for days. But my daughter fought with a quiet strength that humbled me.
Robert showed up to some appointments, but his heart wasn’t in it. He spent more time on his phone than comforting our daughter. His mother, who had always favored him, blamed me for “not noticing sooner.”
