When I didn't respond, Joshua paced the length of the hospital bed. His shoes clicked against the linoleum like an irritated metronome.
"I know you're angry." He stopped, glaring down at me. "But have you considered *my* position? Do you think it was easy getting where I am today? Do you have any idea how many people are watching me, just waiting for me to slip up?" His voice climbed. "They're *desperate* for dirt on me!"
He threw his hands up. "You're my dad. That's a fact I can't change. But why can't you think about me for once? Why couldn't you just stay peacefully in the village? Why did you have to come to the company and make a *scene*?"
Silence.
*Think about him?*
Every step I had taken in this life—every drop of sweat—had been for him.
The ward door slammed open.
Paul Lambert, my cousin, surged in, trailed by a gaggle of relatives whose names I couldn't even recall. They flooded the small room like a tide, packing it so tight the air seemed to vanish.
"Good heavens! Asher!" Paul's voice boomed as if he were afraid an audience might miss his performance. "What on earth did you do to end up like this? You nearly gave us a heart attack!"
He lunged for the bedside and grabbed my hand. Instinctively, I tried to pull away, but my body was too weak.
Trapped.
A woman—Paul's wife, I assumed—chimed in, her voice shrill. "Uncle Asher! You really scared us to death! You're an old man now—what could possibly be so important that you can't let it go? Why did you have to get into a huff with Joshua? The boy is so busy, and here you are causing trouble for him!"
She swiveled toward my son, her expression shifting to practiced sympathy. "Joshua, don't worry too much. Your uncle is just venting. Once he cools off, he'll be fine. But honestly, you should treat the elderly better in the future!"
Her words were dressed up as mediation, but the underlying message rang clear: *This is all the old man's fault for not knowing his place.*
I watched this farce unfold. A bone-deep exhaustion settled over me.
Slowly, I opened my eyes fully, my gaze drifting past their feigned concern to the gray, lifeless sky beyond the window.
When I spoke, my voice was low. Devoid of anger. Yet it carried a weight that silenced the room in an instant.
"Son, do you remember when you were ten? It was winter then, too."
I paused, letting the memory take shape.