Clara
The days after that conversation with Alexander were not dramatic.
They were worse, they were normal. And normalcy, when you're in the midst of a decision that can change your life, feels like a silent countdown.
Dad has been better. That, by itself, already changes the way I breathe.
We talk every night. At nine o'clock. It's almost a ritual now. He tells me what he had for breakfast, exaggerates how disciplined he's being with the diet, complains that the doctors "don't know anything," and then, inevitably, asks about me.
"Are you eating well?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Are you resting?"
"I try."
"Are you alone?"
Always that question.
And always my pause before answering.
"I'm not alone," I told her two nights ago.
I didn't lie. But I didn't explain either.
He sighed on the other
