Page 90 of The Assist
“Then don’t let him find out yet. But don’t shut it down, either. You’re allowed to be happy, Mia.”
There’s something about the way she says it that sticks. Maybe because deep down, I’m not used to the idea that Iamallowed.
Before I can respond, a text from Mum pops up on my screen.
Mum: Dad’s appointment is Tuesday. Can you come? Could you get some time off?
My heart stutters.
“Hey,” I say to Sophie, “I need to call Mum. Can I ring you tomorrow?”
She’s quiet for a beat, then says gently, “Of course. Call me after.”
I hang up, already dreading this next part.
I dial, and Mum answers after the second ring.
“Mia, love.”
Her voice is warm, familiar, but there’s that soft edge of fatigue she can’t hide anymore. It hurts every time I hear it.
“Hi, Mum. Got your message.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t wake you, did I? I didn’t realise how late it is.”
“No, no. Just got home.” I sink deeper into the sofa and tuck my knees up. “You said Dad’s appointment is Tuesday?”
“Tuesday afternoon. Dr. Patel wants to do the cognitive screening and a full neuro assessment. They’ve fast-tracked it.”
“That’s good, I think.”
She sighs. “It is. But I’d feel better if you were here.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. My throat tightens. “Yeah. Of course.”
She hesitates. “I know work’s busy. And I know your dad hasn’t made it easy on you. But it might be helpful. For all of us.”
I glance out the window at the night sky, still painted with city lights. My chest aches.
“I’ll talk to my manager. Try to get a couple of days.”
“Thank you, love. I know he’s not the warmest soul, but you know deep down he…”
“Mum, it’s okay,” I cut in softly. “I know he loves me. Even if he never says it.”
She doesn’t argue. Because we both know it’s true, and that it’s complicated.
Dad has always been a man of silence. Opinions, criticisms, disappointment; those he hands out freely. But affection? Support? Not so much. He never understood why I didn’t become a nurse or a doctor even, why I chased sports science and physio, or why I wanted to work in such a male-dominated world.
He’s never said he was proud of me. And I’ve spent years pretending it doesn’t matter.
But it does.
And now he might have dementia. And all of the conversations I thought I’d have with him one day, about forgiveness,and acceptance, and maybe even love, they suddenly feel time-sensitive. Like there’s a clock ticking somewhere I can’t see.
“You’ll keep me posted?” I ask.
“I will,” she says gently. “He’s in bed now. Had a bit of a confused moment after dinner.”
