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"I'm here," he says quietly, reminding me that no matter what happens here today, I'm not alone.
Taking strength from his presence, I make my way slowly up the stairs behind my uncle Jack, towards my father’s bedroom suite at the far end of the corridor of the west wing.
When we enter his bedroom, my father is lying in the centre of his huge, four poster bed looking gaunt and pale beneath the eiderdown. To say I’m shocked is an understatement, he’s barely someone I recognise. Cancer has taken hold of him and reduced him to a shell of what he once was. There’s no peace in his sleep, his body displaying for all to see how he’s suffered. His lips are dry and cracked, parted on rattling breaths, his eyes are sunken in their sockets, his cheeks hollowed out, and his once muscular arms reduced to bones draped in sagging skin. I resist the urge to cry, not because I don't feel empathy for his situation but because I need to remain strong to do what I must.
"How long does he have left?" I ask, my gaze shifting, taking in every detail of this room which hasn't changed since my mother died many years ago.
Her portrait still hangs above the antique dresser, her favourite armchair still positioned near the window beside my father's reading chair. Even her favourite vase is filled with fresh flowers on top of the bedside table. It seems strange that I feel so much of her in this room, when there's so little of my father left.
"Days, if that. He's been holding on for you," Jack says, motioning me to get closer to the bed.
"For me? If that's the case why not contact me before now?"
"Niall is a stubborn man, proud, and pigheaded. They're traits us O'Farrell men carry like a ball and chain. I made the call because I knew he was close to leaving us, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to say your goodbyes."
"Thank you," I reply, feeling a swell of something painful inside my chest.
"I shall wait outside. If you need me, just call," Jack replies, before leaving the room, gently shutting the door behind him.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jakub asks me, pity in his gaze.
I nod, forcing myself to step closer to the bed, dreading what might happen next.
“Father?” I say tentatively, my steps faltering when, for one brief moment, I'm not sure if he's still with us or not. Then I hear him drag in another laboured breath and know that he is.
"Father?"
Reaching out, I touch his arm gently, feeling the brittle bones beneath his paper thin skin. He stirs in response to my touch, and I lower myself on the edge of his bed, allowing him to wake up before saying anything further. When his eyes flutter open and focus on me, it takes him a moment to register who I am. Then recognition sparks in his tired gaze and he smiles weakly.
"You came," he croaks before reaching out a shaky hand towards me.
His palm is cold and clammy, but his grip is surprisingly strong when he takes hold of my hand. "I've missed you."
I wish I could say that I missed him too, but the lie is caught in my throat and I can't seem to form the words. My father has been absent for the better part of my life. Yes, we might've lived in the same house together, but he was never present unless there was something he wanted from me. I recall a couple dozen conversations with him over the course of my entire life and they were always perfunctory at best, and stilted at worst.
"Are you in pain?" I ask him, knowing that in my bag I have a tonic that will help ease his suffering should he need it.
"Not now that you're here, my sweet girl."
Sweet girl?
In all my life, my father has never referred to me as his sweet girl.
"You always did take the pain away," he continues, lips wobbling as he tries to smile.
I stare at him, confusion and disbelief warring within me. Is this the same father that had ignored me my entire life? Where did this sudden tenderness come from?
Is this what death does? Does it strip a man of the darkness of his soul as well as all the life from his body? They say that your life flashes before your eyes right before death comes to take you. Does my father regret how he treated me? Is this his way of apologising for not loving me? I'm not sure that a few minutes of tenderness can make up for all the time he barely registered my existence.
"Your smile lit up a room," he continues, a tremulous smile pulling up his lips as he looks at me.
I stare at my father, unable to fully comprehend the change in him. He has never been this affectionate with me before, not once in my life.
"Why now?" I ask him, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay strong.
"I've missed you so," he replies, lips wobbling as tears glisten in his eyes. "I've missed you so much, my sweet girl."
"Cynthia," Jakub says, resting his hand on my shoulder.
