My parents invited me over for dinner that night.
My mom made arroz con pollo. My favorite since I was little. She put rice on my plate, and then more rice, and then she stood behind my chair with her hand on my shoulder for a minute.
For a few minutes, I let myself feel looked after.
“Any news?” Dad asked. He’d heard something from my aunt. He didn’t know what.
“Not yet,” I said.
Then Mom sat down. She set her fork on the edge of her plate.
“Who was this girl, Lucas?” she said. “Your tía Rosa says something about a wedding. Why would you risk everything for her?”
So I told them. About Alicia. Her drawings. Her jokes. The art school she deferred.
When I told them her age, both of their faces dropped.
“Eighteen?” Dad shouted. He put his fork down so hard it rattled. “Why would you marry an eighteen-year-old patient?”
Mom put both hands over her mouth.
I explained. The prognosis. Three days. Her wish. The fact that there was no romance, none, that it was a forehead kiss and two rings made out of bandages.
Dad waited until I stopped talking.
Then he said, “But why did you say yes, mijo?”
“Don’t make it sound weird, Dad. It wasn’t like that.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” Mom said quietly.
“I’m asking why you married her,” Dad said.
I stared down at my plate. At the rice.
“Because there wasn’t anything else I could do for her,” I said.
The kitchen was quiet.
“Oh, Lucas.” Mom’s voice went soft. “That doesn’t mean marrying her was the answer.”
I wanted Dad to disagree with her.
He reached for his water glass instead. And drank.
They knew me. I could see it in their faces. Neither of them believed for one second that I’d chased her money.
But neither of them thought that made the marriage right.
After a long time, Dad cleared his throat.
“Do you need money?” he asked. “While this plays out?”
“No.”
“Lucas.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll tell you.”
They both hugged me at the front door. A long time. Mom held my face in both hands.
I held on. Relieved, mostly, that their love hadn’t changed.
Even if their faces had.
Adrian Hawthorne is a celebrated author and dedicated archivist who finds inspiration in the hidden stories of the past. Educated at Oxford, he now works at the National Archives, where preserving history fuels his evocative writing. Balancing archival precision with creative storytelling, Adrian founded the Hawthorne Institute of Literary Arts to mentor emerging writers and honor the timeless art of narrative.