“How is he, tio?” I asked Uncle Ricardo. We were the same height and build, similar features, but the effects of time and worry were obvious on him. His hair was almost solid white, and lines were etched deeply into his face. No hug or handshakes. We’d barely spoken in twenty years, neither of us sure how the other would react. The two of us whispered in the hallway outside of Dad’s room.
“The tumor has spread, and they can’t operate. He’s been through chemo twice already, and Juan’s refusing a third course of treatment.” My uncle’s eyes were red. “He will come home. Juan doesn’t want to die in the hospital. I’ve made arrangements for hospice care.” Mom and Dad were the only family he had besides me, and he’d spent most of his life taking care of her. My father had burnt my Uncle too, and
