After the diagnosis, everything moved too fast. More tests. More waiting. More silence.
Then the truth came out—it wasn’t early. It wasn’t something simple. It had already spread.
There was no real cure. Only time. Only treatment to slow it down.
At home, things felt heavy. We tried to act normal, but nothing was normal anymore. My mom stayed strong in front of us, but you could see it in her eyes. My little brother kept asking when dad would be okay.
And my dad… he never complained. Not once.
One night he told me, “I just wish I had more time.”
That’s the part that stays with me.
Not the hospital. Not the diagnosis.
Just that sentence.
Because when someone says that… you realize how fast everything can change.
