I sat by my father’s bedside, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He looked smaller, more fragile in a way I’d never seen before. It looks like his condition is becoming worse.
I reached for his hand, gently. He didn’t open his eyes, but he gave my fingers the smallest squeeze. It was enough to keep me from falling apart. A part of me suspected that he was not recovering, but I still held onto the hope that things would get better with his health.
Then a knock on the door caught my attention. It wasn't a nurse because nurses don't knock. Who could it be? I asked myself as I stood up and opened the door slowly, bracing myself for another doctor or maybe one of my father’s business associates.
But it was Marcus.
I blinked, confused. “Marcus?”
He offered me a small, almost apologet
