Everything with you

Part 70

Justin

The hallway outside Emma's room had become my world. I didn't need a clock anymore—her steady beeps told me time was moving, even if she wasn't.

I sat hunched forward, elbows digging into my knees, trying to shut out the noise in my head. Coach's words about the national team had replayed so many times they were like a cruel taunt. This was your dream. You made it. But sitting here, watching Emma fight for her life, I didn't feel like I'd earned anything. I didn't feel worthy of it.

The victory parade tomorrow gnawed at me. Everyone would expect me to stand up there, smile, wave, and celebrate. I couldn't even say the words out loud. Emma hadn't opened her eyes yet. What was there to celebrate?

The nurses passed by, glancing at me with that look—half pity, half sympathy—whispering things they'd never say to my face. I ignored them, staring through the small window of Emma's room like maybe if I stared hard enough, she'd wake up.

Then I felt someone sit beside me. The scent hit first—familiar, grounding. I turned my head. Dad. He looked tired, lines carved deeper in his face, but his eyes were steady on me. He'd been doing this quietly for days—driving from Williamsburg, spending every other night here, making sure I wasn't alone.

He spoke softly, almost like he was afraid to break something fragile.
"Coach Grayson came to see me earlier," he said.

I lifted my head just enough to meet his eyes.

"Congratulations, Justin," Dad said. "You did it. This was your dream. One day... you could be captain of our national team."

I let out a sharp, humorless huff, shaking my head. "Doesn't feel like it."

His gaze didn't waver. "Come with me. Let's take a walk."

I frowned, glancing back at Emma's room. Just one look at her through the glass. Still. Quiet. Then I pushed myself up, giving her that silent promise I always did before I left.

We walked outside into the night air, the hospital lawn damp under our shoes. I stuffed my hands into my hoodie pocket, waiting.

"Do you know why I left your mom when you were a kid?" Dad asked suddenly.

I froze. My stomach twisted. "Why bring this up now?" I muttered. "You left. That's all there is."

"No." His voice was firm. "That's not the reason."

I turned on him, a bitter laugh escaping. "You don't get to rewrite history now."

He shook his head slowly. "Your mom... asked me to leave."

The words hit me sideways. "What?"

He nodded, eyes heavy. "When her cancer first came—before you ever knew it—she told me to go. I'd dropped out of law school to take care of her. She didn't want me to throw my future away, not while she was fighting for hers. She made me leave, Justin. Made me move across the country to finish school. It broke me. But I did what she asked."

I blinked at him, stunned, anger battling confusion. "That doesn't make sense. Mom's cancer—she got it now, not back then."

"No," Dad said quietly. "She got it the first time when you were eight. Joanna was only two." His voice faltered, but he kept going. "She finished chemo and went into remission. And during that remission, she asked me to go. To build something stable for you kids. She didn't want you growing up in hospital corridors like you are now. She wanted you to have a life."

I stared at him, my breath catching. My mind reeled, trying to put pieces together that had never fit before. All those years of silence, of thinking he'd abandoned us... And now this?