Chapter 3 - The Race Against Time
The drive across town was an excruciating nightmare of red lights and endless traffic. Colin gripped the steering wheel of his truck with white-knuckled intensity, weaving through morning congestion while I sat in the passenger seat clutching the shoebox against my chest. Inside that cardboard container lay the shattered fragments of my marriage: the medical records showing his tumor progression, the receipts showing he had quietly paid out-of-pocket for my specialized anti-nausea medication through an anonymous courier, and hundreds of short, daily journal entries addressed to me, written on yellow legal pads until his handwriting devolved into nearly illegible scribbles.
""I need to call Rebecca and Simon,"" I gasped between ragged breaths, fumbling with my phone in the glove compartment. ""They need to be there. They spent twelve months despising him. Simon threw his father's tools out into the driveway! Rebecca told everyone her father was dead to her! They can't live with that guilt, Colin! They need to know!""
""Call them,"" Colin said, his jaw set tight. ""Tell them to meet us at St. Jude's. Room 214. But tell them to drive safely. We don't have much time, Lydia. The head nurse told me this morning that his vitals were dropping steadily through the night. His kidneys are shutting down. He's held on by sheer force of will just waiting to know if you were going to be okay.""
With trembling fingers, I dialed my daughter’s number. When Rebecca answered, her voice was light and cheerful, still basking in the glow of the previous night’s celebration of my remission. ""Mom! Good morning! Simon and I were just talking about taking you to that seaside brunch this weekend to celebrate your scans. How are you feeling?""
""Rebecca, listen to me very carefully,"" I sobbed, unable to contain the grief tearing through my chest. ""Drop everything right now. Pick up your brother and drive straight to St. Jude’s Hospice on 4th Street. Right now, darling. Do not ask questions, just drive.""
""Mom? What's wrong? Did your doctor call back? Is the cancer—""
""No, sweetheart, I am fine! But your father is there,"" I cried, the words rushing out like an unbroken torrent. ""Your father never abandoned us because he didn't care! He has terminal cancer, Rebecca! He hid it from us so his medical bills and bankruptcy wouldn't ruin my chances to get treated! He has been dying in secret for a year! He’s in hospice right now, and he's slipping away!""
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Then came a sharp, shuddering gasp, followed by the sound of Rebecca dropping her phone onto the counter. I heard her screaming Simon's name in the background, a sound of sheer, unadulterated anguish that shattered my heart into a million pieces.
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""We're almost there,"" Colin said, turning sharply onto the tree-lined boulevard leading toward the hospice facility. The brick building stood quietly beneath the shade of towering oaks, peaceful and unassuming, completely indifferent to the storm of tragedy unfolding within its walls.
As soon as the truck rolled to a stop, I threw the door open and ran. My body was still weak from months of radiation, my muscles sore and fatigued, but adrenaline carried me up the concrete steps and through the sliding glass doors. The scent of antiseptic and lavender hit my nostrils. I didn't stop at the reception desk; I followed the directional signs along the corridor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Room 214. I pushed open the heavy wooden door, and my entire world came crashing to an absolute halt.
