Dad remained silent for several seconds. Then he picked up his phone, sent a message to someone and told me to go up to his bedroom. Next to his bed he had already placed an armchair with a pillow and a blanket.
“You will sleep here in the chair, and I will sleep in bed,” he said. We’ll close the door from the inside.
I asked him if we were in danger. He sat on the edge of the bed and covered his face with his hands.
I made a bad decision, Emily. I thought I could take care of everything by myself. But I’m afraid something will happen tonight.
A chill went through my whole body. I remembered the phone call, the curtains closed and the fact that Dad hadn’t allowed me to come back from school alone for several days. At half past eleven, we heard a noise down. Someone slowly opened the kitchen door.
I jumped off the chair. Dad immediately grabbed my hand and took a finger to his lips. Then the lights of a vehicle went through the window. Someone knocked on the front door three times. Dad paled.
“Stay here,” he said.
He didn’t want to let him go, but he left the room and closed the bedroom door behind him. At first I heard whispers below, followed by heavy steps. Someone was going up the stairs. The doorknob began to move.
“Emily, open the door,” I heard my father say.
When I opened the door, Dad was there with two men dressed in medical uniforms. One of them was carrying a bag full of equipment. The other one brought the chair closer to the bed. I had no idea what was going on.
Dad sat down and finally told me the truth. A few weeks earlier, doctors had discovered a serious heart rhythm disorder. His doctor had warned him that he could not delay treatment, but Dad had postponed it because he didn’t want to spend my birthday in the hospital. That morning his condition had worsened. The doctor had insisted that he go immediately to the hospital, but Dad had asked him for one more night at home so he could be with me.
The phone call I had accidentally heard was also from the doctor. Dad had said, “Don’t approach my daughter,” because one of the paramedics wanted to tell me what was going on during the party. Dad was afraid I’d panic.
The reason I had asked myself to sleep near him was painfully simple. I was afraid that his condition would get worse during the night and no one would notice. I wanted him to be close, not to scare me, but so he could ask for help. However, the doctor had not trusted his decision and had sent some health workers to our home.
“I should have told you before,” Dad said, struggling to hold back tears. But no father wants to admit to his daughter that he is afraid too.
I approached and hugged it tightly.
“You always tell me that you don’t have to be ashamed of being afraid. That applies to you, too.
That night I slept in the chair by his bed while one of the health workers stayed on the ground floor. The next morning, Dad was taken to the hospital. His treatment lasted several weeks, but he was successful.
A year later, we placed another chocolate cake on the table in the same kitchen. Dad was already feeling good again. When I took the knife, he came over, kissed me on the cheek and whispered:
You will sleep in your own room tonight. But tomorrow we’ll spend the whole day together.
I laughed and hugged him. On my previous birthday I had thought I would lose my father that same night. Instead, that was the night he finally realized that being strong didn’t mean having to carry all of him alone.
And I learned that sometimes behind the most terrifying request there is no dark secret, but only the simple desire of a frightened father: to wake up one more morning with his daughter.
