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“Family of Robert Morton?” I ask the receptionist, my voice a stranger in my ears.
“Down the hall, third door on your right,” she replies with barely a glance.
My feet carry me forward, Amanda’s steady presence at my side. Each step is heavier than the last, gravity morphing into something thick and tangible. The corridor stretches endlessly, the overhead lights too bright and too harsh. My heart thunders, threatening to burst through my ribcage.
“Blake.” Amanda’s voice is soft, yet it slices through the fog in my mind. Her hand finds mine, grounding me, rooting me to the spot. “Together, remember?”
“Right.” A deep breath in, hold, release. “Together.”
When we reach the door marked ‘Family Room,’ I hesitate, not ready to face reality. With Amanda beside me, I muster the courage and push the door open.
Entering the room to find Mom’s face, a mask of worry chills me to the bone. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her usual warm glow is snuffed out. She’s wringing her hands, a telltale sign that the world inside her head is spinning out of control. Emily clutches Mom’s arm like she’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart. I can read the fear in her wide eyes—they mirror mine.
“Blake,” Mom whispers, and the single word carries a lifetime of anguish.
I close the distance with strides that feel too heavy and wrap them both in an embrace. Amanda hangs back, and a pang of guilt tightens my chest at abandoning her.
“Let’s sit down,” I murmur, guiding them toward the private waiting area tucked away from the chaos. The room feels like a bubble with false calm painted in pastel shades and soft chairs that attempt comfort.
We settle into the seats, and Mom takes a deep breath that doesn’t quite steady her. “Now that you’re both here, I think it’s time you both know. They admitted your father for phenomena, but that’s only a setback to his underlying condition.” She takes a shaky breath. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “The doctor diagnosed him with COPD. It’s in an advanced stage.” The words fall like stones into the silence.
“Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease,” Emily says, as she brings a trembling hand to cover her mouth.
“Can they … what does that mean?” I ask, the question hanging between hope and dread. My fingers dig into the arms of the chair, the faux leather cool beneath my palms.
“It means,” Mom says, swallowing hard, “it’s serious. There’s no cure. Only treatment to manage symptoms.”
“Is he…” The rest of the sentence gets stuck in my throat, too terrified to let it out. Visions of Grandpa’s last days fighting for space in my thoughts.
“He’s stable, for now,” she reassures, or at least tries to. But her eyes, brimming with tears, betray her words.
“Stable.” The word doesn’t fit in this new reality and promises nothing. It’s a life raft made of whispers and maybes.
Amanda moves closer, her hand finding mine, intertwining our fingers. She doesn’t have to say anything; her touch speaks volumes. I squeeze back, grateful for her strength when mine is faltering.
“Thanks,” I mouth to her, and she gives a slight nod. Thankful that we have each other.
Mom leans forward, hands clasped tightly together, a portrait of resilience fraying at the edges. “We’ll get through this, Blake. As a family.”
“Of course we will,” I echo, but the words taste like ash. Everything’s changed in an instant, and I’m scrambling to keep my head above water. “How long have you known?”
“Your dad suspected something over the summer, but his stubborn ass didn’t get to the doctor until fall. He was diagnosed at the end of September.”
Just about when Dad told me to stop messing with my hobby and join the company.My stomach roils. How stupid I’ve been. All this time, working toward making sure I won the skills tournament so I could keep playing, bucking my father while his lungs were failing him.
I rake a hand through my hair. The room feels too small, the air too thick. I get up and pace back and forth like a caged animal. Mom watches me, her eyes reflecting a storm of worry that rivals my own.
“Blake…” she starts, but I’m already piecing it together.
“Is this why Dad’s been pushing me to join the business early?” The words tumble out, raw and accusing. “He knew, didn’t he? He knew, and he didn’t say anything.”
My heart races, blood thrumming in my ears as I think about all those dinner-table conversations I’d shrugged off with a quick joke or a change of subject. Not understanding their sudden need to travel and enjoy life while they can.
“Blake, we thought we had more time,” Mom says, her voice cracking. Her hands twist in her lap—a sign of stress I’ve come to recognize.
“More time…” I echo hollowly. And suddenly, I see it all—the expectation, the legacy, the unspoken plea in Dad’s eyes every time he talks about the future of our family business.
But now, my future stands teetering on a cliff’s edge. Hockey. My breath comes faster, desperation clawing at me from the inside. I’ve worked so hard, bled, and sweated for the dream of going pro, of escaping the blueprint laid out for me since birth.
