I won't wait for you anymore

"Uncle Anson, drive us home?" Richard whined, tugging on my husband's tailored sleeve.

Anson laughed, a warm sound I rarely heard directed at our own child lately. "Alright, buddy. Let me grab my keys."

"You're leaving?" I stepped into the foyer, blocking his path to the front door.

Dora materialized right behind him. She smelled of expensive perfume, a sharp floral scent that made my stomach turn. "Helen, I feel awful about this. But you know how Richard gets in the dark. He just needs a man around to feel secure."

"My seven-year-old daughter has leukemia," I said, my voice dead flat. "She needs her father."

Dora lowered her gaze. "I told Anson we could take a cab."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dora," Anson snapped at her, then glared at me. "It’s a twenty-minute drive, Helen. Stop acting like I’m moving to another country."

"Tomorrow is the transplant," I reminded him. "You need to be rested. You need to be here, with Anna."

Anson grabbed his coat from the rack. "The extraction isn't until tomorrow morning. I'll sleep when I get back. Anna is already half-asleep anyway."

I pointed toward the dining room. Anna sat silently in her chair. A pink paper crown rested crookedly on her bald head. She hadn't touched the slice of chocolate cake in front of her. She just watched us with hollow, tired eyes.

"She's awake," I said. "And she wants you to read her a story."

"I'll read to her tomorrow after the procedure," Anson said, shoving his arms into his sleeves. "Jesus, Helen. Give me a break. I'm donating my bone marrow to save her. You act like I'm a monster."

"You're not a monster," I said. "You're just never here."

"I provide for this family!"

"You provide money. You don't provide time." I dug my fingernails into my palms to keep from screaming. "Look around, Anson. I hung those streamers. I baked that cake. Anna sat there waiting for you to come home from work, and you walked in with them."

"Richard wanted to see the decorations," Anson said defensively.

"Richard blew out her candles!" I shouted.

"He's just a kid," Anson muttered. "He got excited."

"He got excited? This is Anna's seventh birthday. She spent the entire morning vomiting from her pre-op meds, just so she could sit at this table and have cake with her father."

"And I was here for the cake," Anson shot back.

"You were on your phone! Texting Dora!"

Dora shifted uncomfortably. "Helen, we were just coordinating the carpool for Richard's soccer practice. It wasn't anything secretive."

"I didn't ask you," I snapped at her.

Anson stepped between us, shielding Dora from my gaze. "Don't talk to her like that. She’s a guest in our home."

"She’s an intruder."

"You're acting crazy." Anson shook his head. "You've been acting crazy for months."

"My daughter is dying, Anson!"

"And I'm saving her!" he roared. The sudden volume echoed off the walls.

Silence fell over the room. I glanced back at the dining table. Anna had flinched at the yelling.

I lowered my voice. "You left our anniversary dinner because Dora’s sink was leaking."

"It was flooding her apartment!"

"You skipped Anna's last birthday because Richard had a mild fever."

"He was crying for me!"

"Anna was crying for you last month!" My voice cracked. I forced it steady. "She was throwing up bile from the chemotherapy. She begged for you to hold her hair. Where were you?"

Anson looked away.

"You were at Richard’s school open house," I answered for him. "Dora posted the pictures. You were smiling in the front row. You even wore the tie I bought you for Christmas."

"Richard doesn't have a father," Anson said quietly. "He needed a male figure there."

"Anna has a father," I whispered. "And she needed him here."

Dora touched his arm. "Anson, maybe we should just go. I don't want to cause trouble."

"You've been causing trouble since the day you moved back to town," I told her.

"Helen!" Anson barked. "Apologize to her."

"I will never apologize to her."

Anson's expression hardened. "I'll be at the hospital at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Have her prepped."

He walked past me, brushing my shoulder. He didn't look back at the dining room. He didn't say goodbye to the little girl in the pink crown.

The front door clicked shut. The deadbolt remained unlatched.

I stood in the hallway for a long time. The house felt entirely empty, save for the hum of the refrigerator.

I walked back into the dining room.

Anna pushed her plate away. The frosting on the cake had melted into a sugary puddle.

"Is Daddy gone?" she asked.

"He had to run an errand, sweetie."

She picked at the edge of her paper napkin, tearing it into tiny white strips. "Richard gets to go home with him."

"Richard is just borrowing him for a little bit." The lie tasted sour on my tongue.

Anna looked up. Her eyes were too old for a seven-year-old. Sickness had stolen her childhood, and Anson had stolen her father.

"Mommy," she whispered.

"Yes, baby?"

"Will Daddy come tomorrow?"

I froze. The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ninety-nine times. I had counted them. Every excuse, every sudden departure, every time he chose Dora and Richard over us.

I remembered the night my car broke down in the rain, and Anson couldn't pick us up because he was assembling a bed frame for Dora's guest room. I remembered Thanksgiving, when he left before the turkey was carved to help Richard fix a broken toy.

I had always told myself it would change. I had always believed he would step up when it truly mattered.

But watching him walk out that door tonight, on the eve of the most important day of our daughter's life, something inside me broke. It didn't shatter into pieces. It simply turned to steel.

He wouldn't come.

If Richard scraped his knee tomorrow morning, Anson would miss the extraction. If Dora had a flat tire, Anson would leave us waiting in the surgical ward.

I couldn't risk my daughter's life on a man who never stayed.

I knelt beside her chair. I gathered her tiny, fragile body into my arms. Her heart beat against my chest, a rapid, frightened rhythm.

"No," I said.

She sniffled. "He won't?"

"No, Anna. We aren't waiting for him this time." I pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. I wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Mommy is going to save you."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

I carried her upstairs. I tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets over her shoulders. I sat in the dark until her breathing leveled out, until the pain medication pulled her into a deep sleep.

Then I walked out to the hallway. I pulled my phone from my pocket.

My hands didn't shake. I scrolled through my contacts and pressed the call button.

The line rang three times.

"Dr. Evans," a tired voice answered.

"Doctor, it's Helen."

"Helen? It's past ten. Is Anna experiencing complications?"

"No. Anna is stable. She's sleeping."

"Then what's wrong?"

I leaned against the wall. I stared at the framed family photo hanging opposite me. Anson, me, and a healthy, smiling Anna from three years ago. I reached out and turned the frame face down on the console table.

"I need to make a change to tomorrow's schedule," I said.

"A change? Helen, the marrow transplant is set. Anson is scheduled for prep at 6:30 AM."

"Anson won't be there."

"What do you mean he won't be there? He's the primary match."

"I know," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "But he isn't coming."

Silence stretched over the line. Dr. Evans let out a heavy sigh. "Helen, if we don't have the marrow, we postpone. And Anna doesn't have time for a postponement."

"We aren't postponing."

"Then what are you suggesting?"

I swallowed hard. "This surgery. Can we just use Plan B?"

The doctor paused. "Plan B is extremely risky for you. We discussed this. The match isn't perfect, and the physical toll on your body—"

"I don't care about the toll. Can we do it?"

"I need Anson's consent to pull him off the roster."

"You won't get it." I gripped the phone tighter. "Because by tomorrow morning, he won't just be off the roster. He'll be out of our lives."

"Helen, think about this. If we proceed with Plan B, the recovery will be brutal for you. You'll be hospitalized alongside her."

"Then put our beds next to each other."

"Are you absolutely certain?" Dr. Evans asked.

"I've never been more certain of anything." I hung up the phone.

I stared down at the blank screen, my reflection staring back at me. Tomorrow, I would give my daughter a future. And Anson would finally realize exactly what he had thrown away.