Page 111 of Cruel Submission

I stop walking.

Dad looks good. Not cancer-patient good, not relative-to-last-week good, but genuinely good. His face has filled out. The gray pallor is gone. He’s wearing his own clothes—a soft navy jumper and dark sweat pants, not the hospital gown I’d started to forget he could exist without. Freshly showered. Shaved.

And he’s eating. Not picking at food the way he has for months, actually eating. Eggs, toast, bacon, a cup of tea, and he’s working through it with the focus of someone who’s rediscovered hunger.

He sees us. His whole face transforms—recognition, then pure, uncomplicated joy. The kind I remember from childhood, when Debra and I would come home from school, and his entire world narrowed to us.

“Girls.” He stands. Actually stands without the slow-motion rising I’ve watched him perform for months, without reaching for the table. Just stands and opens his arms.

I’m moving before I think. Debra too. His arms close around both of us, and we’re tangled together—father and daughters, the unit we’ve always been.

He smells like himself. Not hospital soap, not antiseptic. Just Dad. Laundry detergent and the ghost of his aftershave and something that feels like comfort.

“Look at you both,” he says, and his voice is strong. Full. “My beautiful girls. Together.”

He looks at Debra, not with the drugged, pain-fogged haze he’s had before. His eyes are clear as he takes her in.

“Debra. God, you’re here. You’re really here. For a while, I thought I was dreaming it.”

“I’m here, Dad.” Her voice is quiet but steady. Her face is pressed into his shoulder, and I can feel the way her breathing has changed, deep, almost steady.

We stand like that until my lower back protests and the baby elbows me in the kidney. When we pull apart, all three of us have wet faces.

“Sit, sit.” Dad gestures to the chairs. “Have you eaten? The food here is terrible, but it’s food, and after months of that nutritional supplement nonsense they kept passing off as meals, I’ll take terrible over beige liquid any day.”

We sit. He returns to his chair with no sign of the pain he’s carried for so long.

“How are you feeling?” Stupid question. I can see how he’s feeling. But I need to hear it.

“Honestly? Better than I have in months. The treatment kicked in. Dr. Klein is calling it a dramatic response, which I gather is medical speak for we didn’t expect this, but we’ll take it. My last tests came back with numbers they actually smiled about. Smiled, Mira. When was the last time you saw an oncologist smile?”

Never. The answer is never.

“Dad, that’s incredible.”

“It is.” He sets his cup down and looks at both of us with the dad-look I know too well—the one that says I expect the truth. “Now. Is one of you going to tell me what’s been happening? Because I’m recovering from cancer, not a coma.” He turns to Debra. “Where were you all this time?”

Debra’s hands settle in her lap. That deliberate stillness. I watch her face cycle through options before settling on the version of truth we came up with.

“I was kidnapped,” she says. “Taken during the school trip. Held for a long time.” She pauses. “I’ll explain the rest later, Dad. It’s too complicated right now.”

Dad processes this in real time—the shock, the horror, the parental rage that has nowhere to go because the threat is past and Debra is here, alive, returned.

“The police—”

“Are involved. It’s ongoing. Arkady’s helping—he has resources. He’s making sure I’m protected.”

Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Dad looks at me. Back at Debra. Then at the window, where the city sprawls in its gray indifference.

“You know what, Debra?” he says finally. “You’re right. Let’s not discuss it now. Let’s just enjoy each other’s company. You being here—both of you being here, together, with me—that’s what truly matters. We’ll get to the rest when you’re ready.”

The knot in my throat loosens.

Dad reaches across the table and takes Debra’s hand. Then mine.

“I love you both. Whatever happened, whatever is happening—that doesn’t change. You’re my girls. That’s all I need to know.”