Wyatt
About a year ago…
“Daddy, we gotta go,” I said, grabbing my father’s jacket out of the closet and stepping into the family room. My father, who was supposed to start chemo today, still had his butt planted in front of the television, volume pegged on ninety-two, as always, and watching one of the Real Housewives shows. No, not watching, pretending to watch.
“Daddy!” I growled over the television, grabbing the remote from the side table and turning it off.
“Hey, I was watching that.”
I shook my head. “We need to go.”
“Bullshit,” he countered. “Why won’t you just let me die already?”
I bit back tears. “Get your ass in my car, old man, or I’ll spend every last dime I have finding a way to make you live forever.”
“There’d be a lot more dimes if you’d let me die so I can leave you
