An hour later, I push through the doors of Bluebonnet Care Center, my heart racing. The familiar scent of disinfectant hits immediately. I spot him by the nurse’s desk, his tall frame unmistakable even with his shoulders slumped as he speaks to a doctor. The tension radiating off him is palpable, like static electricity before a storm.
Hanging back, I watch as the doctor’s words drift over. “...rapid decline... organ failure... prepare for the worst...”
Gale’s face is a mask, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands, the clench of his jaw. It’s the look of someone barely holding it together, and it makes my chest ache.
As the doctor walks away, I approach. “Gale?” I say softly.
He turns, his eyes finding mine. For a moment, his mask slips, and the raw pain I see makes my breath catch. But there’s something else there too—a hardness, a bitterness that speaks of years of anger and resentment.
“Hi,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m sorry I made you come.”
“Where else would I be?” I reply simply.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
I want to hug him, to promise everything will be okay. But false hope isn’t what he needs right now. Instead, I ask, “What can I do?”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that would’ve been endearing under different circumstances. “They’re saying... they’re saying it’s bad. That I should...” He trails off.
“Say goodbye,” I finish gently.
He nods, a mix of emotions flashing across his face—grief, anger, confusion. “Yeah. That.”
My heart breaks for him. Jim Knight had been a hockey star once, just like his son. But he’d let fame go to his head, abandoning his family for a life of partying. The drunk driving accident that left people dead and him with a traumatic brain injury was just the final act in a long play of selfishness and irresponsibility.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask, half expecting a no.
But Gale surprises me, reaching for my hand. “Please,” he says quietly.
I squeeze his hand, hoping to convey what words can’t.I’m here. You’re not alone.
As we walk down the corridor, our footsteps echoing in the quiet, I feel Gale’s grip tighten. Approaching his father’s room, he slows as if heading into quicksand.
“Hey,” I say softly, making him look at me. “Whatever you’re feeling in there... it’s okay. You don’t have to forgive him or make peace if you’re not ready.”
A storm of emotions rages in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he admits, his voice cracking slightly. “After everything he did... leaving us with nothing, watching Mom work herself to death. The doctors said it was cancer but I saw how the stress ate her alive, how the pain lived in her body long before they found the tumors...” His hands clench into fists. “She spent years holding us all together while he was out there living his new life, and it killed her. It fucking killed her.”
“You can,” I say firmly. “And you’re not doing it alone. Whatever you need—to yell, to cry, to sit in silence—I’m here.”
He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
We step into the room together. Jim Knight lies motionless in the hospital bed, a shadow of the larger-than-life figure he’d once been—he looks small now, fragile.
I hear his sharp breath, feel the slight tremor that runs through him. I want to say something, anything, to make this easier. But what can you possibly say in a moment like this?
Gale moves forward slowly. When he reaches the bedside, he just stands there, staring down at the man who’d caused so much pain.
“Dad,” he says, his voice barely audible. “It’s just me. But I... I’m here.”
I hang back, giving him space. I watch as he tentatively reaches out, then pulls his hand back, as if afraid to touch his father.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Gale continues, his words coming out halting and unsure. “Part of me hopes you can’t. Because I... I don’t have a fucking clue what to say to you. Sorry for swearing, but maybe I shouldn’t be. You always knew your way around colorful language.” He pauses, taking a shaky breath. I want to go to him, to offer some kind of comfort. But I know this is something he needs to do on his own.
“You left us,” he says suddenly, his voice gaining strength. “You left us with nothing. Do you know what that was like? Watching Mom work herself to the bone, moving from our home to that small house, how she struggled to keep even that roof over our heads? Seeing her heart break over and over every time anotherwoman came forward, every time your face was plastered across the tabloids?”
I feel like an intruder, witnessing this raw moment. But I can’t look away, can’t leave Gale to face this alone.
“She died thinking you never loved her,” Gale continues, his voice cracking. “The cancer... the doctors said stress can’t cause it, but I know. I know it was you. Your betrayal, your abandonment—it broke her.”
