“Reese, can you come in here when you have a moment? There’s something we need to talk about”.
 Mom’s words caused me to look over from the kitchen, where I stood with the fridge’s doors hanging agape. My brain quickly analyzed what the conversation could be about. It’s rare for my parents to want to have any sort of serious conversation with me. (Did I forget to clean my room? No, I made sure to get that done. Is it about Starr? She’s becoming an old dog–eating a little less and having trouble getting around–but she’s been doing better since she’s been on new medication.) I didn’t have the faintest clue what this discussion would entail. 
I nodded as I closed the doors to the fridge and walked over to the living room where my parents were. As usual, they were seated on opposite ends of the couch; the middle was reserved for Starr. I sat in the lonesome chair that hid in the shadows of the room’s corner, looking at my parents’ faces. They glanced at one another, and I determined it was more serious than a messy room. Mom did the talking. She carefully explained that over the past few weeks, Dad’s cardiologist had been monitoring an issue regarding a valve in his heart. She told me that it didn’t work, that the blood was leaking back into a chamber in his heart. I listened intently to every word that came from her mouth; I wanted to understand completely. I sat up slightly and nodded. 
“He’s going to need open heart surgery”. 
I stared at her. I felt a continuous thump in my chest and noticed how it quickened. My eyes glanced over to where Dad sat, his legs crossed in a casual fashion. He looked perfectly healthy, he was perfectly healthy. But I’ve just been told otherwise. The words reached my ears, but their meaning disappeared with the room's silence. I nodded, letting them know that I understood. Other than the awkward fidgeting of my hands, I didn’t react. It wasn’t until that week in July that it finally hit me.

—

Dad and I had always gotten along. I’m his only child, and I know he enjoys being the father of a daughter. He’s naturally affectionate and supportive: qualities of a great dad. However, as I slowly reached the ages closer to adulthood, our relationship shifted dynamics. Before, I would enjoy spending my time with him. We would go out to eat together and hang out by watching our favorite movies. As time went on and I reached high school, I grew distant from him. It was my own choice. His affectionate personality began to irritate me, and I couldn’t find myself enjoying our relationship anymore. He took notice–my lack of effort being terribly obvious–and he tried to ease the tension in our relationship. It was frustrating because I was comfortable with where we stood. He, however, wanted to return to a past that would be simply impossible. He yearned for the relationship he once had with his little girl, but his little girl was almost 17. His little girl was tired of being in a relationship where she felt like she wasn’t taken seriously. His little girl wanted a mature relationship with her father.

—

The inevitable week in July approached quicker than I thought it would. Mom and I sat in the waiting room on the second floor of the cardiac unit. I clutched my belongings tightly as I watched faceless strangers pass by. It was only the beginning of a 5-hour-long surgery. Mom and I left the frigid, suffocating room to instead sit in an open area with a little more life. I looked down at Mom’s bag. The black-covered journal that Dad had given us before he went behind those forbidden doors peeked out and looked at me. My hand reached out and carefully took the journal from where it was hidden. My fingertips traced its edges hesitantly before I opened it, revealing its secrets. There, embedded in the paper with black ink, were my father’s words. A month’s worth of journal entries, all of which were letters to me. 
I slowly flipped through the pages, reading each word. Water began to blur my vision as I continued reading, the weight of his words making their way into my heart. I suddenly came to the realization of where I was and why I was there. The conversation in the living room with my parents months prior finally caught up to me. Memories of Dad and I flooded my mind, and I felt warm tears stream down my cheeks. I remembered the few moments when Dad tried to ease the awkwardness of our relationship; when he asked if I wanted to go out to breakfast with him like we used to. I remembered how I denied his invitations each time. It hit me hard. Was I selfish for only considering my feelings in our relationship? What if this surgery fails, and I never get to see him again? What if I never get to tell him that I love him again? Am I…a bad daughter? 
Waiting felt like an eternity. I had no choice but to sit there with my thoughts as they steadily gnawed away at me. Mom and I both felt it necessary to find a more comfortable place to wait and with an expected 4 more hours to go, we decided to head back to the hotel that was attached to the hospital. The moment I walked into my temporary living arrangement, I instinctively dropped all the baggage I was made to carry. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. My head hit the pillow, and I crashed harder than the world around me. 
After what seemed like only a short while, my eyes slowly opened and I took in the sight of the textured ceiling above me. I heard Mom’s voice, though I was too drowsy to understand her words. Soon enough my brain became clear of its fuzzy state, and I turned to look at Mom. When my eyes focused on her face, I knew immediately what was going on.
“He’s out”.

—

Mom and I stood alone in the elevator, watching as the number above the doors gradually counted higher. Once the doors opened, we both stepped out with anxious anticipation. We hastily walked down the seemingly never-ending corridor, eventually taking a left past a plentiful cluster of nurses. The agitated beeps of heart monitors echoed through the hall, leaving an unpleasant ringing in my ears. Finally, a nurse led us to a room and pulled back the stale blue curtain, revealing my father.
Dad was hooked up to every machine they had in that hospital. Tubes emerged from his body in each direction, littering the floor in a tangled mess. My eyes traveled from his (sleeping) face to his throat, where I noticed a large tube sticking out of his windpipe. My eyes continued their journey to a lengthy tube that was filled with blood. After following the tube I became aware that it had been inserted in between his ribs and into his lungs to allow excess fluid to drain out. Seeing Dad in this condition was so foreign to me. His complexion was more pale than usual, and his body trembled vigorously from the medications he had been put on. It was initially overwhelming, but soon I came to the realization that Dad was okay. In fact, he was more than okay. He was alive.
Through my hesitation, I was able to approach his bed and grasp his hand in mine—my thoughts from before eased. The surgery didn’t fail. I’ll get to tell him I love him again. I’ll be able to be a better daughter. Everything that had once bothered me seemed so daft, so trivial. Now, all that mattered was that we were together.