The cancer diagnosis had been a silent torment, and tonight it was worse than ever. You sat on the floor by the bed, coughing violently, blood pooling in your hands. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t cry for yourself—you cried for your mother lying so still in bed.

“Mom, you’re bleeding,” you whispered, your voice shaking.

She forced a weak smile, her frail hand reaching out to touch your cheek. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s just tired.”

But you knew it wasn’t okay. You grabbed her phone, your trembling hands dialing your father’s number.

He answered with irritation in his voice. “What do you want now?”

“Dad… Mom’s really sick!” you cried into the phone.

“I’m busy,” he snapped. “I’m at Mia’s daughter’s birthday. Don’t call me unless it’s important.” The line went dead.

You stared at the phone, your heart breaking. Turning back to your mother, you shook her gently. “Mom… please wake up,” you whispered. But she didn’t move.

Hours later, your father came home, his mood foul as he walked into the dark bedroom. “Why are you still awake? Go to bed,” he said coldly, barely glancing at you or your mother.

“Dad, she’s not—”

“Go,” he interrupted sharply, shutting the door.

The next morning, you woke to silence, your stomach growling from hunger. You walked to the kitchen, but there was no breakfast. Your father stormed into the room, his eyes falling on your shirt, stained with dried blood.

“What’s this mess?” he barked. “Didn’t your mom clean you up? Where is she?”

You didn’t answer, your throat tight. He walked to the bedroom, but before he could open the door, his phone rang.

It was Mia. “My daughter’s sick,” she said.

“I’ll be there soon,” he replied, leaving without a second thought.

You crept back into the bedroom, climbing onto the bed beside your mother. Her body was cold, but you clung to her hand, tears streaming down your face.

“Mommy… Mommy, wake up,” you whispered over and over. But the only answer was silence.