A woman in an armchair | Source: Midjourney
And I’ve been pretending to her, to myself, to the world, that he’s just “indisposed.” That he’s just “tired.”
Because how do you tell a six-year-old that her dad is still here, but he’s gone? That the father she sees every day is just a body I care for, a fragile, living memorial to the man I loved, to the life we lost?
How do you tell her that her father is still breathing in that chair, but he’s been in a persistent vegetative state since she was three?
And the real, horrifying truth? That I’ve been living a lie so profound, so devastating, because I don’t know how to stop. And because, deep down, a part of me believes that as long as he’s still here, even like this, then I haven’t truly lost him. And neither has she.
A dark figure standing in a doorway | Source: Midjourney
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