“Hey there, Daddy.”

“Princess. Hello.”

I walked down the small hallway that dumped straight into the living room. I saw my father sitting on the couch, cockeyed and watching the endless scroll of news on the screen. I sat down next to him and wrapped my arm around him, kissing him on the top of his head. I felt him press his cheek against my shoulder, and I smiled, then closed my eyes and thanked my stars.

He was strong enough to move on his own. That meant he was having an all right day.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I’m good today. Though, I hate that I couldn’t help you take that wreath over to the gravesite. How was the small memorial service?” my father asked.

“It wasn’t the funeral, Daddy. Remember? That was last week. This was just a small restaurant get-together to reminisce on the good times with Deb and Bernie.”

“Did you see that letter from Little Sally?” he asked.

“I made sure to grab it and stick it in the wreath, yes.”

“Good. She really wanted that to go.”

“She didn’t come into the house, did she, Daddy? She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

“I’ll never turn a child away, Ira. You know this,” he said.

“Well, you need to start learning how to. This treatment compromises your immune system.”

“Enough with the cancer talk, princess. Tell me about the service or whatever it was you attended today.”

I told him about it. The stories I’d heard. The stories I’d told. Almost everyone that worked at the restaurant had gathered with a drink in their hand to swap stories. I told them about the time Bernie had called me back into the kitchen and recruited me as his cook because someone called in sick. I’d never been so stressed out in my life. I love to eat, but that night, I found a very deep hate for food.

We all shared laughs as the stories flowed.

I regaled my father with all of them. With the story of how Deb apparently cussed out one of the patrons for being incredibly rude to the waitstaff. It was before my time, and hard for me to imagine such a sweet, caring woman actually cussing at someone. I’d worked at the restaurant for three years, ever since my father got sick. I’d come back into town when he was diagnosed with cancer and took a job waitressing and doing whatever I could to help in order to keep my father’s medical bills manageable. I helped pay the bills and keep up the house and took care of him the way I knew he needed, despite his constant protests.

“So, it was a good gathering? No tears? I always hated that about funerals. I want to celebrate someone’s life, not grieve their death,” my father said.

I rubbed his back as he sat up.

“It was a very good gathering,” I said.

I didn’t tell him about the crying and the hugging. I didn’t tell him about how Deb and Bernie’s son rolled up in his car as we were all getting into ours. I didn’t tell him about how I stayed, watching their son and crying, grieving their horrendous death. I didn’t tell my father about how sad I really thought it was because I didn’t want to think about the barrel the two of us were staring down.

My father’s eventual death.

“I want my funeral to be a celebration, Ira. Don’t you turn it into a blubbering fiasco,” my father said.

His statement ripped me from my thoughts.

“I don’t want you talking that way. You know what the doctor said. A positive mind is just as important as a healing body,” I said.

“It’s inevitable. Whether this cancer takes me or whether I do get to die of old age, my death will happen, princess. And when it does, I want you to celebrate my life, not grieve my departure,” he said.

“Dad, we aren’t talking about this.”

“We need to at some point. I’ve already got my will set up. But we need to talk—”

“Wait, you what now?” I asked.

My father turned and faced me, his eyes haggard. The bags under them were the biggest I’d ever seen them. And he looked so pale. Fragile. Like at any moment, he’d crumble to the floor and turn to dust.

“I met with a lawyer a few weeks back and made my will. I’m giving everything to you, and it’ll make settling my estate easier,” he said.

“Daddy, why did you do that without telling me?” I asked.

“Because I knew you’d put up a fuss about it. I’m sixty-three years old. It was time I had one.”

“You’re not dying anytime soon. You got that?”

“You don’t know that. No one knows that. Bernie and Deb didn’t know that.”

“I’m not talking about this a second longer. Stop thinking about your death and start thinking about the life we’re going to lead together,” I said.

My father sighed as I took his hands within mine.

“Fine. But just so you know, I’m not happy about it,” he said.

“Your complaint has been lodged with HR,” I said, grinning.

He chuckled. “Well, on to a different question. What do you think is going to happen to the restaurant? Will you still have a job?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ll keep going to work as usual until I’m informed of whether I do or not.”

“You’ve always been a good girl, Ira. But I want you to make sure you have a safe place to fall if the restaurant shuts down. Should you be putting in applications or something?” he asked.

“Deb and Bernie were nothing if not planners. I’m sure they’ve got something in place to help with the restaurant. It’s been two weeks since they died in that accident. And nothing’s been said yet about the place shutting down. So, I’m keeping my hopes high.”

“Maybe they’ll give it to you,” he said, grinning.

“I’ve only worked there for three years, Dad.”

“Yeah, and you’re the hardest-working person they’ve got.”

“They also have a son,” I said.

“Is he handsome?”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Yep. You’re having a good day.”

My father chuckled. “I need someone watching over you after I’m gone.”

I shot him a look. “I said, stop it.”

“He’ll need to be a spitfire, though, to keep up with you.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“The question is, when are you bringing someone home for dinner?”

I rolled my eyes and pressed myself off the couch.

“Chili and cornbread, it is,” I said.