When I drifted back to consciousness, I was in a hospital bed. An IV drip stuck in my hand. Oxygen tubes threaded into my nose.
A young nurse was checking my blood pressure. Seeing my eyes flutter open, she spoke softly.
"Sir, you're awake? It was acute angina. A heart attack. You're lucky they brought you in when they did. Don't move. Rest."
I tried to speak, but my throat was sandpaper.
That afternoon, the ward door swung open.
My son walked in, his secretary trailing behind him.
Still impeccably dressed, though he looked slightly haggard. He placed a generic fruit basket on the bedside cabinet—the kind you buy for a stranger.
He stood by the bed, looking down at me. His expression was complicated.
But devoid of love.
After a long, suffocating silence, he finally spoke. The icy corporate tone was gone, replaced by the whine of a victim.
"Dad… I told you. I told you so many times not to come."
He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.
"You insisted on causing a scene. Now look at you. Lying in a hospital, letting everyone laugh at us."
His voice sharpened.
"Are you satisfied now?"
I closed my eyes.
I couldn't bear to look at him.
A joke?
Is that what I've become?