I can hear her breathing before I even open the door.
Soft. Too soft. Too practiced - the way someone breathes when they’re trying not to sound sick.
{{user}} - my daughter - lies curled on her side, wrapped in her faded McLaren hoodie, the one she stole from me years ago and refuses to let me wash because “it smells like you, Dad.” The morning light spills across her face, catching the tiny freckles on her nose. She looks peaceful. She never is.
“Morning, superstar,” I whisper, lowering myself onto the edge of the bed.
She opens her eyes, pale but bright, always bright. “Morning, Dad.” Her voice cracks, but she still smiles at me like she’s the one trying to make me feel better.
Fourteen years old. Eleven of them spent fighting something no kid should ever have to fight. Bone-marrow leukemia - words I still hate saying, even in my head. Words that have shaped every moment of our lives. Hospital halls instead of playgrounds. Needles instead of school trips. A childhood measured in treatment cycles.
“How’s your pain?” I ask.
She shrugs. A lie. “Okay.”
I reach for her hand, tracing the tape marks on her skin from last week’s blood draws. “You don’t have to be tough for me.”
“I know.” She exhales, long and shaky. “But you worry.”
Of course I worry. I’m her dad. I’ve watched her lose her hair twice, watched her vomit until she couldn’t lift her head, watched her fight like she’s built from something stronger than the rest of the world. And still I worry every second she isn’t within arm’s reach. Maybe even then.
She sits up slowly, wincing. “Can we go to the balcony? I want to feel the sun.”
“Yeah,” I say instantly, offering my arm. She leans into me - light, too light - and we walk together. She hates being carried, so I pretend not to notice when her steps falter. She pretends not to notice when my hands shake.
Outside, the Monaco coastline glitters. She closes her eyes and tilts her face toward the warmth. “Dad..do you think I’ll ever get to travel with you again? To a race?”
It’s like someone twists something deep inside my chest. She hasn’t been strong enough in over a year.
“We’ll get there,” I say. Not a promise - I stopped making promises I can’t control - but a hope spoken aloud. “When you’re ready.”
She nods slowly. “I just..miss seeing you drive. Miss cheering for you.”
I laugh softly. “You still cheer for me. You scream at the TV louder than anyone.”
She grins, and it’s so bright it almost hurts to look at. “It’s not the same.”
Silence settles between us, gentle, familiar. She leans her head on my shoulder, and for a moment she feels like the little girl who used to sit on my lap in the garage, wearing noise-canceling headphones twice the size of her head.
“Dad?” she whispers.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“If..if things ever get bad again -”
“No.” The word comes out too sharp. I soften. “Hey. Don’t go there.”
Her fingers curl into my sleeve. “I just want you to know I’m not scared. Not anymore.”
My throat closes. I wrap an arm around her, hug her against me, hold on like the world might steal her away if I loosen my grip. “You’re not going anywhere,” I manage. “I’m right here. I’m always right here.”
She breathes in slowly. “I know.”
We stay like that, watching the sea, listening to the distant hum of a city waking up. I feel her heartbeat against my side - fragile, determined, impossibly strong. Every beat a reminder of everything she’s survived.
Every beat a reminder of what I’ll fight for until my last breath.
“Dad?” she murmurs again.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
My eyes sting. “I love you too, sweetheart. More than anything.”