The Sweetest Devotion

𝐈𝐗.

    My father turned from his program, glancing at me momentarily before doing a double take. At once, a broad smile curled onto his mouth, stopping and starting my heart violently.

    He was happy to see me.

    Breathe, Kennedy, breathe.

    I coached myself to walk over to his bed. To approach him. To be civil.

    As much as I loved my father, I hated him for putting me in this awful position to feel so conflicted.

    My father had always been so big and powerful to me, now here he was, so fragile and small it seemed, before my very eyes.

    I wanted to touch him, but I didn't know how.

    Instead, I found myself sitting in the vacant chair beside his bed, stealing a peek at the TV before turning back to him.

    "Hi, Daddy," I spoke softly, my trembling voice giving way to how broken I was at the state of affairs taking place.

    My father chuckled, hearty and strong. He was still here. Grounded with me. "Neddy."

    The sound of my childhood nickname warmed my heart and stilled all my trepidation. "Long time, no see."

    He nodded, appearing thoughtful. "I assume you're a-angry."

    "You're damn right I am," I said through gritted teeth. "It's not fair!"

    My father blinked and faced me, sympathy tugging on his features. "I understand."

    "Do you? You put me in a shitty position, Daddy. And I can't even be really mad because..." I stopped myself, trying to stay strong, trying not to break, trying not to let him see me crack. Now wasn't the time for weakness. He was already suffering enough.

    "It...won't hurt my feelings if you say I'm dying," he said.

    My eyes hurt as I squeezed them shut to stop the tears. I couldn't handle this. I couldn't face this.

    There was no time to be upset or feel betrayed with his insidious illness plaguing our family. It felt selfish. Selfish for him to put the burden on me to help his company. And selfish for me to feel anything but supportive and caring as he battled his disease.

    I watched my father struggle to piece together his thoughts, his mind not yet used to his condition. He'd been on go for most of his life. Stagnancy would kill him before ALS did.

    "He's a cunning bastard," my father admitted. Oddly, though, he seemed to smile at the fact. "He must like you. A lot."

    Or he was a control freak who didn't like taking "no" for an answer. "I'm touched."

    "G-Give it three years. Please," my father seemed to beg.

    Confusion took over me as I leaned over, resting my arms on his duvet. "Three years?"

    My father nodded. "The marriage isn't contractual. There isn't exactly a legal way to rope your daughter into a binding marriage for a joint business venture." He took a deep breath, poising himself to finish out his statement. "There isn't a divorce clause. Cain simply insisted on my end I state in my will you won't receive your inheritance unless you see three full years of marriage." A frown marred his face as he eyed me. "He wanted five, I said two, and we m-met in the middle on three."

    Divorce. It was still a possibility as long as I suffered through three years of being with Cain. This was news to me.

    "I think he believes he can win you over," my father went on. "He's a bastard, Neddy, but he knows what he wants."