TWENTY.

I look down at our joining hands, running the pad of my thumb across my father's knuckles, wondering how we ended up here.

His hands are cold, fragile, and calloused. He has the hands of a man who has carried the weight of the world on his back for too long.

The hands of a man who has worked his entire life to feed his family the best that he can.

Tears stain my cheeks as I raise our joined hands and press a light kiss on the inside of his palm.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner, Dad.” I whimper, rubbing the side of my cheek against his hand, needing to feel his touch.

When I entered my fathers’ room, I didn’t know what to expect. I was hoping that he would be awake, sitting up in his bed and nutting off at the nurses to allow him to return home.

Instead, I walked in to see him hooked up to a life support machine in a dimly lit room. I almost collapsed to my knees with grief.

My father is the only family I have had by my side since my mothers’ passing.

He did his best to raise me