Frank dried his hands on a dish towel, walked over to me, put his hands on my shoulders.
“Sharon,” he said quietly. “When’s the last time one of them stayed past five?”
I opened my mouth to answer. Couldn’t, because I didn’t know.
Frank kissed the top of my head. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s sit on the porch. I’ll make us some coffee.”
We sat outside and watched the sun go down. He made the coffee the way he always did—strong, with just a little bit of cream in mine, black for himself. It was 6:15 p.m. The house smelled like coffee and evening air and the faint ghost of Sunday dinner.
That was the last normal Sunday I remember, because three weeks later everything changed.
May 7th, 2021. Metobrook General Hospital. Dr. Robert Sullivan’s office.
The office smelled like antiseptic and old carpet. Frank sat next to me, holding my hand. His palm was sweaty. Mine was cold. We’d been sitting in the waiting room for 40 minutes, watching a fish tank in the corner where three goldfish swam in lazy circles, going nowhere.
Dr. Sullivan opened the door. “Frank, Sharon. Come on in.”
We followed him into his office. Diplomas on the wall. Family photos on his desk—two kids, a golden retriever. He gestured for us to sit, then sat down himself, folding his hands on top of a manila folder.
He didn’t smile.
That’s when I knew.
“Frank,” Dr. Sullivan said, his voice gentle but direct, “the biopsy results came back. It’s pancreatic cancer. Stage three.”
The words landed like stones. Frank’s hand tightened around mine.
“How bad is stage three?” I heard myself ask.
Dr. Sullivan looked at me—kind eyes, tired eyes. “It means the cancer has spread beyond the pancreas to nearby lymph nodes, but not to distant organs yet. We can treat it. Chemotherapy, possibly radiation. But I won’t lie to you. It’s going to be difficult.”
“What’s the prognosis?” Frank’s voice was steady, calmer than mine.
“With aggressive treatment, we’re looking at a five-year survival rate of about ten to fifteen percent.”
The room went very quiet.
“How long do I have?” Frank asked. “If I don’t do treatment.”
“Frank,” I started.
He squeezed my hand. “How long?”
Dr. Sullivan paused. “Six to twelve months.”
I called Jeffrey from the hospital parking lot. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone twice. Frank sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at nothing. Jeffrey answered on the fourth ring.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up? I’m actually in the middle of—”
“Jeff.” My voice cracked. “Your father has cancer.”
Silence. Then: “What?”
“Cancer. Pancreatic. Stage three.”
I could hear voices in the background. Someone laughing. Jeffrey covered the phone, said something muffled to whoever was there.
“Jesus,” he said. “Okay. How bad is it?”
“Bad. They’re saying five-year survival is ten percent.”
“Oh my god.”
Another pause.
“Okay. I’ll—I’ll call you tonight, Mom. I’m in the middle of a deposition. I can’t really talk right now.”
“Jeffrey—”
“I’ll call you tonight. I promise.” Click.
I sat there with the phone in my hand, staring at the screen. Frank reached over and took it from me gently.
“He’s busy,” he said. “He’ll call.”
He didn’t call that night. He called three days later.
I called Abigail next. She answered on the first ring.
“Mom? What’s wrong? You never call in the middle of the day.”
“Abby.” I couldn’t stop the tears this time. “Your father has cancer.”
