Chapter 2 - THREE WEEKS TOO LATE
My father had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer nine months earlier.
He did not tell me.
My mother did.
Four months after the diagnosis.
By then I was stationed aboard the USS Jefferson, preparing for deployment.
“Your father doesn’t want to worry you,” Helen said over the phone.
I nearly dropped the handset.
“How bad?”
“He’s managing.”
“Put him on.”
“He’s sleeping.”
I called the next morning.
No answer.
Again that afternoon.
No answer.
That became the pattern.
My mother always answered first.
Dad was sleeping.
Dad was at treatment.
Dad was exhausted.
Dad didn’t want to talk.
Then one Sunday, he called me himself.
His voice was thinner than I remembered.
“Kiddo.”
I had not heard that word in almost a year.
“Dad.”
For ten seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I heard him breathe.
“You still wearing that ridiculous officer face?”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
“You still pretending you know everything?”
“Absolutely.”
That was my father.
Dry humor.
Even while dying.
“I’m coming home.”
His answer was immediate.
“No.”
I thought I had misheard him.
“What?”
“You stay where you are.”
“Dad, you have cancer.”
“And you have orders.”
“You’re my father.”
“And you are an officer.”
“Dad—”
“Rebecca.”
His voice hardened.
The voice that once stopped me from running into traffic at eight years old.
“Do not abandon your people because I’m sick.”
I closed my eyes.
“I can request emergency leave.”
“I know.”
“Then let me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I raised you to finish what you start.”
I hated him for saying it.
For almost a week.
Then my mother called.
“He asked for you last night.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He was confused.”
“You said he didn’t want me home.”
“He changes his mind.”
I called Dad.
No answer.
Two days later Helen called again.
“He keeps looking at the door.”
I requested leave.
It was denied because of operational circumstances.
I appealed.
Before the appeal could be resolved, my father’s condition worsened.
Then Helen sent me a single message:
You waited too long.
He died that night.
May you like
I spent the next four months carrying those words like a sentence.
You waited too long.
