The hospital smelled like bleach and regret. Joey walked slowly down the corridor, her footsteps echoing against the tiled floor. Room 214. She hadn't seen her father in years. Not since he left. Not since he stopped calling.
She paused outside the door, heart thudding.
She knocked once, then pushed it open.
Her father lay in bed, thinner than she remembered, his skin pale, his eyes sunken. He looked up, surprised.
"Joey?"
She nodded. "Hi."
He tried to sit up, wincing. "You came."
"I wasn't sure I would."
He gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit."
She did, slowly, her hands clenched in her lap.
"I didn't expect you," he said.
"I didn't expect to come."
They sat in silence, the machines around him beeping softly.
"I'm dying," he said.
"I know."
"I wanted to see you. Before…"
Joey looked at him, her eyes sharp. "Why now?"
He sighed. "Because I'm scared. And because I owe you the truth."
She waited.
"I left because I was weak. Your mother was strong, and I couldn't handle it. I felt small. Useless."
"You made us feel small," Joey said. "You made me feel like I wasn't enough."
"I know. And I'm sorry."
She looked away, blinking back tears. "Sorry doesn't fix it."
"No," he said. "But it's all I have."
They sat in silence again.
"I kept a photo of you," he said. "From when you were five. You were smiling. You had this look—like you believed in everything."
Joey's voice was quiet. "I did."
He reached into the drawer and pulled out the photo. She took it, staring at the little girl she used to be.
"I was brave," she whispered.
"You still are."
She looked at him, really looked. The man who had broken her. The man who was trying, too late, to mend something fragile.
"I don't forgive you," she said.
He nodded. "I don't expect you to."
"But I'm glad you told me."
He smiled weakly. "Me too."
She stood, the photo clutched in her hand.
"I hope you find peace," she said.
He closed his eyes. "I already have. Seeing you… that's enough."
Joey walked out, the photo pressed to her chest.
She didn't feel healed.
But she felt lighter.