When I was nine, my family and I were told my dad might have prostate cancer. I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but I could tell from the look on my mom’s face that it was serious. My dad had always been the strong one, always on his feet, always joking around. Then suddenly, he could barely move, and everything about our home life changed.
From nine to fourteen, he was mostly bedridden. He never stayed in the hospital overnight, but our house became one instead. My mom did everything herself. she was his nurse, his caretaker, and his biggest supporter. The living room turned into his space of comfort, filled with blankets, medicine bottles, and quiet prayers.
I remember doing my homework beside him, just to be near him. Sometimes I would hand him water or help him adjust his pillows. Even on his hardest days, he would still try to make me laugh or tell me I was doing great. It’s strange how someone can be so sick and still so strong at the same time.
Those years were hard. There were days when it felt like our whole world was paused. My mom carried so much on her shoulders, and I saw what real love and strength looked like through her. We didn’t go out much, but we were together, and that togetherness became everything.
Looking back, that time taught me more than I could ever learn from a book. It taught me how fragile life is and how powerful love can be. My dad might have spent five years in bed, but he never stopped being the heart of our home. And even through all the fear and uncertainty, he never stopped being my hero.
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