I’ve read the message several times.
It wasn’t a nod.
But no hugs.
And I understood that I had no right to ask him to enjoy my appearance immediately.
“Take all the time you need,” I replied. “I don’t want to rush you.”
It’s been four days without any message. Meanwhile, Dad was discharged with strict recommendations on treatment, nutrition and cardiological checks. This time, he seemed to understand how close he had been to a serious outcome.
The mother began helping him organize his medication in a box for each day of the week. My father installed alarms on his phone and agreed to keep a diary with the values recommended by the doctor. He didn’t become a perfect patient overnight, but for the first time he stopped treating every advice as an insult.
One afternoon, while I was at work, the phone vibrated.
It was Emily.
“Can we talk tonight?”
