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One of the hardest things a parent can do is reprimand their child, no parent ever wants to shout, scold their child. John L/N lay in his hospital bed, his frail body weakened by the relentless battle against cancer. Tubes snaked around him, tethering him to life, while the sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. His weary eyes gazed out of the window, where the world continued its ceaseless motion, oblivious to his pain and struggles.
His thoughts drifted to his son, Y/N, a source of both pride and concern. Y/N had always been a spirited child, full of energy and enthusiasm, but lately, there had been a troubling shift in his behavior. John had just received news of Y/N's recent troubles at school—a fight and unexplained absences that gnawed at his father's heart like a relentless ache.
His eyes scanned the dull, white hospital room, to his right was yesterdays newspaper, a new hero in New York.
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He had read the paper almost a hundred times since he received the call from the phone call from the principal. Y/N getting into fights, skipping school? This was not the son he raised.
As John's lips parted, he struggled to find the words to address his son's transgressions. It wasn't anger that gripped him but a profound sense of disappointment, a pang of sorrow that his son would choose this path despite the lessons he had tried to impart. His voice, barely above a whisper, trembled with emotion as he finally spoke.
"Y/N," John began, his voice hoarse and strained, "I... I heard about what happened at school. The fight... the absences." He paused, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. "I'm not angry, son. I'm just... disappointed."
His words hung heavy in the air, laden with the weight of a father's unspoken hopes and dreams. John's gaze softened as he looked at his son, searching for answers in the depths of Y/N's troubled eyes.
"This isn't what your mother would have wanted," John continued, his voice barely audible above the hum of machines. Memories of Y/N's mother, gone too soon, flooded his mind—their shared dreams for their son, the whispered promises of a future filled with love and laughter.
"I know you're going through a lot, Y/N," John said, his voice wavering with emotion. "But you can't keep running away from your problems. You can't keep lying to me, to yourself." He reached out, his hand trembling as it brushed against Y/N's arm. "What's been going on, son? Why have you been skipping school?"
Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors. John waited, his heart heavy with anticipation, as he searched his son's face for any sign of understanding, of remorse.
Y/N shifted uncomfortably in the chair beside his father's hospital bed, his gaze fixed on the floor as if the pattern of the tiles held the answers to all of life's questions. John's gentle inquiry hung in the air like a heavy cloud, casting a shadow over the already somber room.
