Chapter 3

Three years.

One thousand and ninety-five days.

I woke up at six every morning.

I rolled Papa over, washed him, and changed his bed pads.

Then, I made breakfast and fed him spoon by spoon.

At first, Papa couldn't keep his food down. The porridge would dribble from the corner of his mouth onto the pillow, and I would catch it with a towel, wipe his face clean, and feed him another spoonful.

Rehabilitation exercises started at eight o'clock.

I helped him sit up, carefully moving his fingers, arms, and legs for him.

It hurt him, and he broke into a sweat from the pain every single time, but the doctor insisted he had to practice.

At ten o'clock, it was time for his medication.

Blood pressure pills, blood thinners, and nerve supplements—six kinds of pills in total, all taken at different times.

I made a detailed schedule and stuck it right on the fridge.

Then came cooking lunch.

Papa couldn't eat anything hard, salty, or greasy, so I prepared his meals separately every single day.

In the afternoon, I pushed him outside to get some sun.

Our building had no elevator, and we lived on the fourth floor.

I would carry the wheelchair down, climb back up, move Papa from his bed to the living room chair, help him navigate the stairs step by step, and finally settle him into the wheelchair.

The process was reversed when we went back upstairs.

Two trips a day meant the shirt on my back was never dry.

At night, I soaked his feet, massaged his limbs, and rolled him over.

I had to get up twice during the night to check if he had kicked off his blankets or if the bed pad needed changing.

For three years, I never slept through the night.

I never took a long trip, went shopping, or met up with friends.

My girlfriend of two years eventually broke up with me.

"When is this going to end?" she had asked.

I couldn't say, because I honestly didn't know.

And Arthur?

In three years, he visited exactly four times.

The first time was when Papa had his stroke and was hospitalized.

The second time was for Christmas; he stayed a day and a half before leaving on Boxing Day, claiming he had work.

The third time was for Papa's seventieth birthday.

He brought a cake, snapped a picture, and posted it on PhotoStream with the caption: "Papa's seventieth birthday, wishing my old man oceans of blessings."

The fourth time was now.

Papa passed away, and he finally showed up.

And Beatrice?

She visited slightly more often than Arthur—five times in total.

Every time she came, she made sure to post on PhotoStream.

Hugging Papa for a selfie.

Wiping his face for a picture.

Feeding him fruit while recording a video.

Every post racked up hundreds of likes, with a comments section flooded with praise: "You're so devoted," "Beatrice is such a good daughter," "So touching."

But she never actually knew what medicine Papa took.

She didn't know what time he needed to be turned over, or which of his legs couldn't bear any weight.

Once, I went out to buy groceries and asked her to keep an eye on him.

When I returned half an hour later, Papa had fallen from the bed to the floor.

She was sitting in the living room, completely absorbed in her phone.

"Huh? Papa fell?" she panicked. "I didn't hear anything just now..."

Papa just lay there on the floor, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He didn't cry out, because he couldn't.

When I lifted him back into bed, I noticed the skin on his elbow was scraped raw.

Blood seeped from the wound, but he didn't make a single sound.

He was used to it.

That night, Beatrice left.

Before walking out the door, she stuffed two thousand dollars into my hand.

"Thanks for your hard work, Elias."

Two thousand dollars.

I had taken a demotion and sacrificed three years of my life.

Two thousand dollars.