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A lump formed in my throat, the joy of his approval warring with the lingering worry for the uncertain path ahead with Dean. Family, whether chosen or by chance, never cameeasy. And yet, there was a fire now, a stubborn desire to push back against the sadness, to light a flicker of hope in a heart I was desperately trying to reach.
Chapter 14: Lina
I WOKE DISORIENTED, THE SOUNDS OF CHOKED SOBS SEEPING THROUGH the thin wall separating my guest room from Dean's bedroom. Each muffled cry pierced my heart. It was a visceral punch of sorrow, of empathy for a pain so deep I hadn't even begun to comprehend its true depths. The room around me seemed to dim, his sadness blotting out any hint of morning sunlight. A part of me screamed to rush in, to offer whatever comfort I could. But something held me back, a sharp pain I couldn't name – a mix of heartbreak and something almost resembling respect for his private grief.
His door stood ajar, and just barely visible were scraps of paper littering the floor alongside a tattered envelope. Were they for me? Perhaps the words I yearned to read, apologies from a lost father trying to find his way back after so many years? Maybe even some flicker of the joy he felt upon learning of my existence? My questions buzzed like angry bees in my head, yet as new sobs shook the quiet apartment, I stepped back. Somehow intruding seemed worse than leaving him to his grief.
That afternoon, with sunlight painting stark shapes against drawn curtains, a fragile sense of resolve hardened within me. The time for gentle probing was over. "Dean," I started, my voice trembling even as the words came out with unyielding certainty, "We need to talk. Not about old pain, or regrets. About now. About what you might still become."
Silence hung in the air, broken only by Dean's shuddering intake of breath. It felt like a lifetime before he slowly spoke.
"What's to become of, Lina? I'm a broken thing. Nobody special, nothing about me worth knowing." His voice cracked, each word a testament to the war waging within him. "Days disappear, one after another, blending into a useless fog. Nobody would miss me. Can't name a person who'd shed a tear if I just wasn't here."
Each accusation against himself sliced at my heart. I took a shaky breath, knowing this would be the battle of words that set my own path just as much as his.
"I'd miss you," my voice was barely a whisper, thick with tears, "Don't you see? It's unfair to decide someone else's future for them. It's selfish not to at least try to fight for that person. I didn't search this hard for you, only for it all to end like this."
I continued, voice cracking but gaining strength, "What if you get better, and there's a joy you wouldn't even fathom right now? Life can be messy, cruel, yeah. And I get why it gets too much sometimes. But please, Dean... at least try. Not for your past, not for me even, but for whatever the future you could have. Therapy... medication... just taking tiny steps back from that edge."
As my voice drifted into silence, a heavy beat pulsed in the charged air between us. Hope for an easy fix faded as quickly as it ignited.
"Imagine this," I began, voice raspy but filled with a kind of desperate determination, "One day, maybe when it's not all gray inside, it’s my wedding. And you’re walking me down that aisle. Then there's every weekend, just us. Maybe I teach you how to cook, or we try going for walks or... I don't know! Silly stuff, normal stuff families share."
A tiny breath passed his lips, closer to a sigh than a word. Yet, his voice held a hesitant plea. "If I make it that far..."
A surge of frustration ignited within me, and it made my next words even bolder. “Don’t tell me that. Do you know how many nights I fell asleep wishing someone had tucked me in? How many graduations I walked away from feeling incomplete? It wasn't fair, father. Don't you get that? Don't take away what might be good just because the past sucked!"
It was as if something within him broke then. "But you won't want me after…” he trailed off, the old familiar despair settling in the slump of his shoulders, yet in his eyes, I saw not resistance, but something close to longing. And in that small sign, I finally found the key to reach him.
“Look," I said, taking a seat beside him on the tattered bed. "From now on, you tell me all about it. The bad stuff, the good stuff, just promise me. No more secrets, okay?"
An unsaid pact passed between us, a daughter finally asking what any father should've been asked years before - don’t hide your tears, your struggles. I know they exist, because mine do too. We carry our hurts separately, but maybe it’s time to carry them together, as messy as it may be.
"There's a place where maybe they can help you. There's medication and good doctors. Maybe you wouldn't even like being there, but at least I’d know…" I couldn't finish, a sudden lump constricting my throat.
Dean spoke slowly, as if each word tasted bitter. "Hospitals…” his voice a mere whisper, “They aren’t some fancy-shmancy place they show on TV. In and out, for what, twenty years now? And the meds…" a wave of weariness crossed his face, "they always make me feel numb and unreal. Not alive. That's why I end up stopping them every time."
Tears were rolling freely down my cheeks now, mixing with his on the faded bedsheet. I took his hand, clinging desperately to the rough warmth of his skin.
With my trembling voice, I spoke a simple plea. "Please, father. I know it's too late for some things. What's done is done. But right now, could you fight this just for me? Not because it's right, or even logical. But because I don't think I can bear it if I know, deep down, I never knew my father after I found him.”
It wasn't the promise of happiness, or normalcy. It was an open wound between us, the unspoken "please don't leave yet, not by your own doing" hanging in the air. He stared at our clasped hands, his brow creased. Slowly, almost agonizingly slow, there was the hesitant ghost of a nod.
His voice, thick and rasping, delivered words filled with both uncertainty and something stronger. "Alright. Maybe you’re right, it’s too late for a lot of things. But if they have a damn hospital that works, I’ll check myself into every blasted one of them till something sticks. Not because I believe I can get better. But for you."
His eyes met mine, still brimming with sadness, yet carrying a glimmer I hadn't seen before. Did he really mean it? Would he go through with it? A voice at the back of my mind whispered warnings of fragile hopes. But the look he gave me, the broken yet determined spirit of a father looking at his daughter, felt truer than any words ever could.
Maybe it was real. Maybe, this time, he would see it through.
THE PSYCHIATRIC WARD, WITH ITS STARK HALLWAYS AND HUSHED ATMOSPHERE, felt miles away from the world I knew. Hank gripped my hand tightly as wesaid goodbye to Dean. There were no grand promises, no teary declarations of a sudden cure. But his eyes, less hollow than ever before, held a stubborn spark I desperately wanted to believe in.
"You’re gonna kick those shadows good and proper, old man?" My attempt at a teasing tone came out strained and emotional. "Can't be having my favorite person moping around the place long. I'm bringing a bag of cheesy jokes next time to make even the doctors cringe."
He managed a half-smile, a ghost of a chuckle. "Guess there's no escaping it then, huh? Maybe if they work, those damn doctors of yours will let me out sooner."
With my heart fluttering between hope and the familiar dull ache of past disappointments, I took a deep breath. "So you'll keep taking the meds? Even if they feel weird, just for a little while? And talking to someone who maybe knows how all that brain science works?"
"We got your back, Dean," Daddy offered, his voice a rumble low and gentle. "You call us if you need us. Anytime."
