I married the She-devil

I’ve never liked the smell of hospitals. They always have this very strong bleach smell that drives me crazy. Today, the halls are more crowded than usual. People rush past me in scrubs, pushing gurneys and yelling codes I don’t understand. Somewhere, a baby is crying. Someone else—someone’s heart just stopped—and I’m standing in the midst of it all, trying not to crumble. I make my way to the elevator and hit the button to the fifth floor, a little too eagerly. Last night, when I had left the hospital, Dad’s skin was yellowing and he could barely speak. Normally, I would have slept right by his side, but I had been doing that for the past 14 days. So the nurses forced me to go home last night and get some actual rest. I lost my mom when I was just five. I barely remember her face—just her soft arms and the lullabies she used to sing to me. Dad had to become everything: mother, father, protector, friend. And now cancer wants to take him away from me. They often say that grief gets easier with practice, but this? This is a storm I am not ready for. The doctor says he is not going to survive it, so right now it is just a matter of when his time is up. And when he’s gone? What then? The estate? The house I grew up in? It’ll become a battleground. My uncles are already circling like vultures, smiling through their teeth, waiting for the moment they can claim what was never theirs to begin with. The elevator door finally slides open with a ding. I step out, my heart getting heavier with every step I take toward Room 517. The hallways feel longer today, or maybe I’m just slower. I walk past nurses, patients in wheelchairs, and families sitting in silence. No one looks at me, and I don’t look at them. I reach my father’s door. It’s cracked open, so I give it a gentle push and peek inside. Dad’s lying still. Too still. His chest rises—but barely. His eyes are closed and the machines beep slowly around him. His skin is pale, lips dry. He looks nothing like the man who used to carry me on his shoulders. The one who helped me build tree-houses. A chair squeaks behind me. I turn, and of course, it is Uncle Owen, my father’s older brother. He is slouched in the visitor’s chair, legs crossed and scrolling through his phone like he’s bored. He is wearing a suit that doesn’t quite fit, his tie is loose, his hair slicked back with too much gel—trying so hard to look important. But Owen has never achieved anything in his life. He’s always been the man standing in someone else’s shadow—mostly my dad’s. Now he’s just waiting. Waiting for his younger brother to take his last breath so he can finally feel like he’s won something. “He’s weaker today,” Owen says casually, like he is commenting on the weather or something., “Might be time to start planning.” I don’t respond. I don’t trust myself to. He stands and walks to the window, hands in his pockets. “You know, your father wouldn’t want the property to fall apart. He’d want it in the right hands.” I ignore him, keeping my eyes on Dad. His fingers twitch slightly, and I reach out, wrapping my hand around his. “I’m not discussing anything while he’s alive,” I finally respond to my uncle, my voice low. Owen sighs like I’m being difficult. “Just think about it.” At this point, I am tuning him out. I sit beside Dad, holding his hand, being delusional and pretending that he is asleep—even if it’s just for a moment. Pretending that when he wakes up, he’ll smile and say something dumb like, “You look tired, kiddo. Go get some rest.” All of a sudden, the beeping changes. It’s faster now. Louder. The numbers on the monitor are dropping as well. “Dad?” My voice cracks. His fingers slip from mine. “Dad!” A nurse bursts through the door, followed by two more people in scrubs. Everything starts to blur. Owen steps back. “What’s happening?” “Please step outside,” the nurse says as she is already making her way to Dad’s bed. “I’m not leaving…” I start to argue, but another nurse gently takes my arm. “We need space, please.” I look at Dad. His body jerks slightly as they press something to his chest. A shock. No. No, this can’t be happening. Not now. “Sarah!” the nurse says, firmer now. This time around, I back up and let them pull me toward the door, but I don’t take my eyes off him. Not until the door slams shut. Time feels broken. I can’t tell if the seconds are moving too fast or too slow. Plus, my legs feel numb. In all these things, I keep my eyes fixed on the monitor—not that I can understand its readings—but the red light that keeps blinking just feels like bad news to me. And then— Everything stops. The beeping fades. The doctor steps out, but she avoids eye contact with me. Her gloves are off and her hands are trembling a bit. “Miss Richmond…” she says, her voice almost inaudible. At this point, I knew exactly what was coming, but I hoped for a miracle. I was never one to be superstitious or believe in the paranormal, but I was a desperate woman now. If there was a god, maybe he could do something for my father. The doctor interrupts my thoughts and finishes her sentence. “…I’m sorry. We did everything we could.” I stare at her. No. No. No. The hallway starts to tilt. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe the ground really is shifting. “We lost him at 8:13 p.m.,” she adds gently, like the exact minute is supposed to matter to me at that time. The machines are silent now. My dad is gone.