Page 32 of The Assist
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You texted me that Dad had an episode and used the wordsmore tests,” I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “You knew I’d worry.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. I can hear the clink of a teaspoon against a mug. Maybe she’s in the kitchen, still in her robe, like I am. Maybe she hasn’t slept at all.
“I know,” she says eventually. “I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.”
“What happened?”
“He got lost yesterday. He went to the corner shop for milk and forgot how to get home. Ended up sitting on the curb, confused. A neighbour found him.”
I press a hand to my chest, as if I can physically stop the ache blooming there. “Is he okay now?” We may have had our differences, and he might not have been the perfect father figure, but he’s still my dad.
“He’s fine. A bit embarrassed, but he doesn’t remember being scared. Which almost makes it worse.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “What did the doctor say?”
“They’re running more neurological tests. Brain scans. They mentioned early-onset dementia. But it’s not confirmed yet. They won’t say anything for sure.”
I close my eyes. “Okay.”
“That’s it?” she asks softly.
“No,” I whisper. “But I don’t know what else to say.”
She sighs. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’ve got your joband your own things. I just… I need you to know we might need help soon.”
Help. As if there’s a version of me that knows how to be helpful when my dad starts forgetting who I am.
“I’m here,” I say. “You know I’ll be there.”
“I know.”
We talk for a few more minutes about logistics, appointments and possibilities. But it all feels like scaffolding around something too unstable to build on. By the time we hang up, my coffee’s cold and the sunlight’s moved halfway across the floor.
I stare at Dylan’s last message again.
I keep thinking about last night.
I type out a response slowly, carefully.
Mia: Yeah. Me too.
He doesn’t reply right away. I don’t expect him to. Maybe he’s on the ice. Or at the gym. Or doing that thing he does when he feels too much and doesn’t know what to do with it.
Same, Diesel. Same.
I set my phone down and head for the shower. My hands are trembling a little, but I don’t let myself fall apart. Not yet. Because today’s another day. Another round of taping, stretching, steady hands and measured words. And maybe, at some point, I’ll see him again.
And if the timing’s right, I’ll tell him that last night wasn’t just a moment.
It was the start of something I’m still scared to name.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DYLAN
The morning sunlight slices through the slats of my blinds, spearing straight into my eyes like it’s got a personal vendetta. I groan, roll over, and bury my face into the pillow. Bad idea. It stinks of sweat and stale beer. I need to change the sheets.
