I looked at him and thought:
That’s not true.
“Please,” I said softly, gripping his hand.
“Let me take care of you.”
I juggled my final semester of high school with helping him get to the bathroom, feeding him spoonfuls of soup, and making sure he took his mountain of medicine.
Every time I looked at his face, thinner and paler each morning, I felt the panic rise in my chest. What would become of us both?
One evening, I was helping him back into bed when he said something that disturbed me.
He was shaking from the exertion of the short walk to the bathroom. As he settled down, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity I hadn’t seen before.
“Lila, I need to tell you something.”
“Later, Grandpa. You’re exhausted, and you need to rest.”
But we never got a “later.”
