Page 112 of Convenient Vows

This place used to smell like freshly waxed floors and the scent of cigar smoke. Now it smells like antiseptic and death.

The car comes to a stop in front of the main entrance. The door swings open, and I step out first, forcing my legs to move purposefully. I don’t bother waiting for Cristóbal. I don’t look back. But I sense him by my side, his presence creeping up beside mine like a poisonous shadow.

Inside, the entry hall is dimmer than I remember. The curtains are drawn tighter. The familiar atmosphere of the Delgado household has vanished. It resembles a house in mourning, though the man it mourns still breathes.

What the hell have I done by staying away all these years? Perhaps if I had stayed, I could have stepped up and taken care of what my parents built with their sweat and blood while they managed my father’s failing health. Cristóbal or anyone else wouldn’t have had the chance to infiltrate and topple my father.

A nurse walks by with a clipboard and doesn't acknowledge me. That’s new. Her eyes flick from me to Cristóbal, and then she also gives him a respectful nod. Making my heart sink lower.

We turn the corner into the west wing, which is my parents’ wing. Or what it used to be. Now it resembles a mini private hospital, with portable machines beeping softly. A dialysis setup looms in the corner, with plastic tubes coiled like veins around the room. A sharp smell of antiseptic, sweat, and something stale fills the air. But there’s also the fading scent of my parents.

And then I see him.

Thiago Delgado, once the fiercest man I knew, lies in a hospital bed propped up by pillows. His skin is ashen and stretched thin. He’s wearing a gray cardigan over his shoulders, the kind he used to mock when other older men wore them. His eyes flick up when he sees me, and they shine—but not like they used to. They shimmer like glass catching the last bit of light before it shatters.

“Mara?” His voice is raspy, and my knees nearly buckle at the sound of his voice.

I cross to him without thinking, bending to press my lips to his temple. I try not to cry, but something inside me is screaming with grief.

“Papa…”

He’s grown thinner than I expected. The weight loss is dramatic. His once sturdy hands now appear almost skeletal. A long plastic tube is taped to his arm, connecting him to the dialysis machine. It hums softly, like death whispering lullabies.

“He’s undergoing daily hemodialysis now,” my mother says softly from behind me. I turn and see her standing there, hollow-eyed, dressed in a plain black gown. She’s aged a decade since I last saw her. “Seven days a week. Each session is nearly eight hours. This is what’s keeping him alive.”

I look at her, then back at my father. “Is there no donor match yet?”

I sit gently at his bedside and take his hand. His skin is paper-thin and cold.

“Mija,” he whispers, “you look like your mother when she was your age.”

I try to smile, but my throat burns. “I’m here, Papa. I missed you.”

He coughs. It’s dry and ugly. His entire body shakes with the force of it. Mama’s already at his side, adjusting the pillow behind him. Her movements are frantic and practiced. Obvious that she hasn’t left his side.

Mom turns her gaze on me, her expression strained. “I don’t understand this marriage.”

I freeze.

Her voice softens, but the edge remains. “You and Cristóbal… you never even romantically liked each other. Where did this come from?”

Before I can respond—before I can lie—the door opens and the doctor walks in. I seize the opportunity.

“Doctor Salinas,” she greets, and I also greet the doctor who has been my family doctor for as long as I can remember.

He gives a slight bow of his head, respectful.

“How is he doing?”

“As well as we can expect, Señora.”

The title curdles my stomach, but I nod.

He begins reviewing charts, fiddling with the machine, and speaking in clinical tones. “Señor Delgado has exhausted several treatment options. We tried peritoneal dialysis at first, but he responded poorly. Then short daily sessions—but his body couldn’t recover in between.”

My mother clutches my father’s hand. She doesn’t look away.

“We’ve now placed him on continuous hemodialysis. It’s more intensive—seven days a week. Five to eight hours per session. But it’s the only method slowing the progression.”

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