We stayed like that until the physician came, followed closely by the guard. I stood up quickly when I heard the knock and opened the door to let them in. My heart was pounding the whole time, like it was afraid of what I’d hear.
The doctor, a middle-aged man with a kind but serious face, nodded at me before walking over to Papa. He carried a small leather bag and wore round glasses that kept sliding down his nose. He didn’t talk much as he worked. He just asked me a few questions in a calm, quiet tone.
"How long has he been coughing ?"
"I have no idea. I just met him this way..."
He nodded, writing something down. Then he touched Papa’s forehead, checked his pulse, opened his mouth gently, and listened to his breathing with a wooden tube. His frown deepened a little as he listened.
When he was done, he turned to me. His expression was calm, but there was something heavy in his eyes.
"He’s very weak," he said, gently. "There’s a high fever and a chest infection. It’s serious, but not the worst I’ve seen. He needs plenty of rest, proper food, and medicine every day. I’ll come again tomorrow to monitor him."
My voice trembled. "Will he be okay?"
The doctor looked at me steadily, no lies, just facts. "He should recover, but slowly. You brought help just in time. If you had waited another day or two... it might have been a different story."
I let out a shaky breath and pressed both hands to my face. "Thank you... Thank you so much."
He gave a small bow of his head, then packed up and left with the guard. I made sure they got out safely and then closed the door quietly behind them.
Then I came back and sat down on the floor beside Papa’s bed, resting my head against the edge of the mattress and holding his hand again. His fingers were still warm, though a little limp. But he was breathing easier now. Not great... but not as fast and shallow as before.
"I’m not leaving you," I whispered. "I’m right here, Papa."
His eyelids fluttered, and for the first time since morning, I saw a tiny smile on his face.
"I’m glad you’re here, Lisa," he murmured, his voice hoarse.
Tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I didn’t even try to stop them.
"I missed you so much," I said, brushing a damp cloth gently over his forehead like the doctor showed me. "I kept thinking about you, every single day. I prayed you were okay."
He made a small, tired sound, half groan, half sigh, and squeezed my hand weakly.
"You’re all I’ve got," I whispered. "No matter what happens, I’m not letting anything happen to you. I swear."
But in the back of my mind, I wondered, would Damon let me stay longer if Papa didn’t get better in a week?
And would I care if he didn’t?
Because looking at my father , I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he could sit up and smile like before.
Even if Damon didn’t like it. Even if it caused trouble.
I walked back slowly into my father’s room, holding the tray with his evening medicine. My hands shook slightly, but I tried to steady them.
"Papa," I called softly as I entered the room.
He looked up from the bed. His face was pale and tired, his once-strong body now looking so weak under the thick blanket. But he still managed a small smile.
"My Lisa," he whispered. "You’re here."
"I’m always here," I replied, walking to his side and sitting gently on the edge of the bed. "I brought your medicine. You have to take it now."
He made a face. "Those bitter pills?"
"Papa," I said with a small laugh, "you sound like a child."
"Maybe I am," he replied. "Now that my little girl has come home to take care of me."
I held the glass of water to his lips after placing the pills in his palm. "No jokes. Just take them, please."
He stared at the pills for a second, then looked at me. "You look tired. Are they treating you well over there?"
I hesitated. "It’s... okay. I’m fine."
He raised an eyebrow. "You sure? I know when you’re lying."
I looked down. "It’s not easy. A lot of people hate me over there. But it’s fine."
"Don’t let them change your heart," he said quietly as he finally put the pills in his mouth and swallowed with a sip of water. "You’ve always had the softest heart. Don’t let that place harden you."
"I won’t," I whispered.
He leaned back into the pillow, his breathing heavy. I picked up the towel from the small basin beside the bed and dabbed at his forehead.
"I don’t like seeing you ," I murmured.
He smiled weakly. "I’m just old, Lisa."
"No, Papa. You were fine just a few months ago. What happened?"
He didn’t respond immediately. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. "Maybe I was hiding it. I didn’t want you to worry. You were already going through so much."
"You should’ve told me," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I should’ve been here."
He slowly opened his eyes again. "You’re here now. That’s what matters."
I bit my lip, blinking back the tears. "Do you want soup? Or something warm?"
"No," he replied softly. "Just sit. Sit with me a while."
So I did. I placed the tray aside and curled my legs onto the bed, resting my back against the headboard beside him. He slowly reached for my hand and held it gently in his frail one.
"I missed you," he whispered.
"I used to sit in this bed and imagine you walking through that door," he said. "Just like you did today."
"I wish I had come sooner."
He gave my hand a small squeeze. "Don’t blame yourself. You’ve always been good to me. Even now."
I rested my head gently on his shoulder, careful not to hurt him. "You’re going to be okay, Papa. The doctor said so."
He chuckled dryly. "The doctor says a lot of things. But if I go, I’ll go happy, because I get to see you again."
"No," I shook my head. "You’re not going anywhere."
He smiled faintly and closed his eyes. "I’m tired."
"Sleep," I whispered. "I’ll be right here."
I stayed by his side all through the night. I wiped his forehead when he got sweaty, helped him to the bathroom, and made him warm pap in the early hours of the morning when he couldn’t sleep. I watched his chest rise and fall, afraid of what could happen while I wasn’t looking. I was scared. But I wouldn’t leave him.