In 3 months, I’ll be gone and Dad will be left alone. In 3 months, I will leave one home and enter another. In 3 months, I will be dead, just like Mom.

It was exactly 10:01 when the results came out. Dad and I were sitting on the cheap, plastic seats that line the corridors of hospitals when the doctor came out of his office, and started to walk toward us. He was trying to keep his face expressionless, but I could see pity buried deep among the lines of his face. He motioned for Dad to go over to him, and, to my surprise, Dad complied. They whispered and sighed and whispered again as I gripped the seat of my chair so hard my knuckles turned white. I knew what they were talking about, knew what that meant for me, and for Dad, but I couldn’t come to terms with it yet. In my head, I was still a healthy, 12-year-old boy with reckless cuts and bruises on my legs, not a cancer patient who’s dying with every passing day.

During our drive home, all I could do was look straight and keep quiet. I didn’t dare look at Dad. I was afraid of what I might see on his face, and I couldn’t bear seeing him sad. He was supposed to be the strong one. If he was weak, then I was weak, too.

We ordered lunch from McDonald’s, just like we have everyday for the past 2 years since Mom’s death. I haven’t had a proper, hot meal in a long time, seeing as how Dad is completely useless in the kitchen. He once set fire to the counter while making salad for Mom. God only knows how he managed that. Our neighbor, Mrs. Sawyer, always gives Dad disapproving looks whenever she sees the delivery man stop by our house. “He’s a growing boy, Jay,” she’d say to him. “He needs real food, not this garbage.” Dad would just smile shyly, and hurry back into the house. He avoids having to come into contact with other human beings as much as possible. He hardly ever says anything, not even to me, his son.

He didn’t always used to be like this, though. There was a time when Dad would have stories to tell, business to discuss, people to complain about. But then Mom died, and for some reason, she took him away with her, leaving a ghost, an empty shell, to take care of me.

When we’ve finished cleaning up the table after eating, Dad went off to get his fishing things ready. He goes to the lake near our house once every week for hours, and only comes home when it’s dark. A lot of the time, his eyes are red and swollen, like he’s just finished crying. Mom and Dad got married beside that lake. I don’t think he ever goes there to fish. I think he just sits there and pretends Mom is with him.

I walked up to him. “Dad, could I go with you?” I asked. He looked at me, and for a second I was scared he might say no. Then he nodded.

As we sat by the lake, looking out at the vast stretch of water and the sun setting behind the tall, tall trees, I said, softly, “I’ll come visit you, Dad, and I’ll bring Mom with me. You won’t ever be alone. I love you to the moon and back.”

I turned to look at him. Tears were running down his cheeks, and my heart broke.

“I love you, too,” he whispered. “To the moon and back, son.”