Chapter 3- If There Is A Way.
ROWAN >>
My stomach twisted. I grabbed the nearest chair and sat down before I fell.
Where was I supposed to get that kind of money?
I had just been fired.
And now they were telling me I needed almost a hundred thousand dollars to save my father's life?
"I can't afford it…" I finally said, barely above a whisper.
"There's… there's no way for me to even start," I continued, looking up at the doctor. "I just lost my job today. I don't have savings. I don't have help. I'm not even sure how I got here—I begged for a ride. How am I supposed to raise thousands of dollars?"
The doctor let out a tired sigh, like he had already heard this speech too many times.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "But there's nothing I can do about that."
I looked at him like he had just slapped me. "You're telling me that if I don't bring the money, you're just going to let him die?"
"We're saying," the doctor replied, his tone suddenly more firm, "that if you don't raise at least half of the treatment cost within a few days, we'll have no choice but to discharge him. We can't keep patients here without a financial plan. We'll have to transport him back to your home for the rest of his care."
I stood there, frozen. Every part of me wanted to believe I heard him wrong.
"You mean… you'd actually take him out of the hospital?" My voice was shaky, but rising. "You'd remove him like he's trash, just because I can't pay yet?"
The doctor looked me in the eyes.
"I know it sounds harsh. But hospitals aren't charity homes. If we treated everyone without pay the way you want us to treat your father, we'd go bankrupt. Nurses wouldn't get paid. Doctors would quit. The lights would go off. You need to understand—this system doesn't run on emotion. It runs on funding."
He didn't even wait for me to say anything else.
He turned and walked out of the room.
"Wait!" I called after him, stepping forward. "Please wait—"
But he didn't look back.
I stood there shaking. I felt like I was falling apart.
I walked back to the bed and I sat down beside Papa, reached for his hand, and brought it to my lips.
"Please, Dad," I whispered against his cold skin. "Please hold on. Just give me a little more time. Don't leave me. Please don't give up on me…"
Tears ran freely down my face again. I didn't even try to stop them.
"I'm not giving up on you, okay?" I sobbed. "No matter what. I'll find a way. I'll do anything. But please, you… you have to keep fighting."
I looked down at his body—at all the wires connected to him, the machines beeping slowly.
"This isn't what you promised me, Dad…" I whispered. "You said you'd always be here. You said we'd figure life out together. This isn't the forever you promised. This can't be how it ends."
I buried my face into his hand, letting my cries shake through me.
Then—something moved.
I froze.
Slowly, I raised my head and stared at his hand.
It moved again.
My heart leapt into my throat.
"Papa…?" I whispered, standing quickly. "Did… did you just move your hand?"
Then I looked at his face.
His eyes were opening.
I gasped and leaned in, gently cupping his jaw.
"Dad… you're awake. You're awake!" I cried, half-laughing, half-weeping. "Oh my God, you're awake!"
His tired eyes looked around the room, then found mine. "Yes… son… I'm here. So please stop crying," he said, voice hoarse and dry. "You always get me worried when you cry…"
His fingers lifted, and he wiped a tear off my cheek.
"I thought I lost you," I whispered.
"You didn't," he said, softly smiling. "You didn't."
"Why didn't you tell me, Dad?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick? Why did you wait for it to get this bad before saying anything?"
"I… I… didn't… didn't…" my father tried to speak, his voice breaking, words struggling to form.
"No, no, Papa—don't force yourself," I said quickly, leaning in to touch his shoulder. "I shouldn't have asked that question. Please don't stress. Just rest, okay?"
But he gently squeezed my hand and gave me a weak, stubborn look.
"I didn't want… to stress you, my beloved son," he said in a whisper. "You had… other things to deal with. So don't blame yourself… for not knowing I was sick."
If only I had paid more attention.
If only I wasn't so busy trying to survive.
If I had just looked closely—maybe I could've seen the signs. Maybe he wouldn't have collapsed. Maybe we wouldn't be here.
It was my fault. I knew it.
"I just want to tell you," he continued, his voice shaking, "not to fight yourself too much. I'm old enough to leave this world. You need to focus on your life… not mine. Even if you find the money… do not—I mean, do not—waste it trying to save me."
I froze.
"What…?" I raised my head slowly, staring at him.
"Dad… are you crazy?" I asked, my voice rising. "Why would you say that? What is life without you? How can you even say that if I have the money, I shouldn't try to save you?"
I stood up, unable to hold it in anymore.
"You're the only reason I haven't lost my mind!" I said, my voice cracking. "You are literally the reason I work hard. You are the reason I get up in the morning. What's the point of anything if you're not here?"
He smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. "I know, son. I know you love me. But you shouldn't work hard just for me. Work hard for yourself. For your future. That's what I want. So please… just let me go. That's all I ask."
"No," I said sharply.
"Over my dead body will I let you die without trying everything I can. I will not let you go, Dad. Even if it means doing anything. Anything. I'll do it."
I turned and stormed out of the room before he could say another word.
I leaned against the hallway wall and slid down to the cold floor.
And then the tears.
They came like a flood.
"Why?" I cried out to no one. "Why did life have to be this hard?"
I was so tired of being poor.
So tired of always being the one who didn't have enough.
If I had just been rich—if I had just been someone—none of this would have happened. My dad wouldn't be hooked to machines. I wouldn't be standing here, crying like a child in a public hallway.
I clenched my fists and banged the ground over and over in frustration.
"This isn't fair!" I shouted. "Why does it always have to be me?!"
Tears streamed down my cheeks. My throat burned.
"I can't let him die," I whispered. "I won't let him die."
I wiped my face, trying to clear my vision.
"I need to find a way," I said to myself.
"I need to find a way. I need to find a way!" I shouted, hitting the ground again, still crying.
Then I heard the door open.
I didn't care who it was. I didn't even turn to look.
But a voice came from behind me.
"How about I told you…" the voice said slowly, "…that there is a way for your father to be saved?"