“Is that my boys?” Dad calls from the living room.
Damn you, Ben.
“Hey, Dad. It’s me. Ben couldn’t make it.”
He’s in his usual bright red armchair, but now with oxygen tubes around his face and Dr Hackett sitting beside him. Disappointment flashes in his eyes before he masks it with a smile.
“Dad? What is all this?” Panic creeps into my voice. That familiar feeling of dread wrapping around my throat like a vice.
“Don’t panic, son. Just a silly chest infection. Doc here thought I could use a little oxygen to help the old lungs. Nothing serious.”
“Dad, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m not feelingthatbad.”
I roll my eyes and drop my bag on the floor. “Dr Hackett, good to see you.”
“Be a champ, Henry, put the kettle on, will you?” Dad says.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Hackett adds. “Good chance to talk about your dad’s care.”
“Sounds good.” I smirk at Dad, who’s already rolling his eyes at us both.
As the kettle clicks on, I turn to Hackett. “Alright, how bad is it?”
He sighs. “Not great, Henry. He’s refusing physiotherapy. The inactivity, his diet — they’re making him a target for infections. If this continues, he’ll need permanent oxygen. And if I keep giving antibiotics, he’ll build a tolerance. Next infection could land him back in hospital.”
“He won’t go back.”
“He might not have a choice next time.”
“Fuck.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Sorry.”
“No need. I can only imagine how hard this is for you.”
“I just… feel like he’s giving up. I’ve tried everything — walks, the garden, the theatre. Nothing works.”
Hackett places a hand on my shoulder. “Keep being here. You’re doing a great job. He’s been through a lot. He just needs reminding it’s not over.”
“You’re right. Thanks, Doctor.”
We finish our tea, and Hackett gives Dad one last pep talk about physiotherapy, which Dad shuts down with his usual, “Oh, stop being soppy.”
After Hackett leaves, Dad’s mood darkens slightly. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I do. He’s getting too tired to hide it.
“So, when am I going to see my boys together again?” he asks.
“Hopefully soon, Dad. Something came up with Ben. Maybe next Saturday.”
He frowns but doesn’t push it.
“What happened between you two?”
“Nothing, Dad. He’s just busy.” Lie. Easier than the truth — that Ben just stopped showing up one day.
I make another round of tea and sit back on Mum’s old floral sofa. It’s ancient — borderline biohazard — but Dad refuses to part with it.
“So, Henry, what’s new?”
