Page 127 of Fighting Fate

Sitting here with her feels like talking to my own father, but instead of at our dining room table or on the sidelines of a football field, we're in the hospital's cancer wing.

I glance away, avoiding her probing look.

Get it together, Miles.

"Yeah, easier said than done," I mutter, my irritation clear in my voice. Harper's eyes shift past me, nodding slightly, as if confirming something with Kinsley. The silent exchange leaves me pondering the dynamics at play.

Harper then stands, skillfully maneuvering her IV stand, and gestures for me to follow. I rise, abandoning my seat to trail behind her. We leave the familiar ward behind, our footsteps echoing in the corridor. Side by side, we approach the hospital's large windows, the world outside reduced to a miniature scale beneath us. The holiday lights glow warmly in the hallway, their colors dancing against the walls, contrasting the sterile environment we've left.

We round a corner, and Harper's whisper cuts through the silence. "There's something I want to show you."

Recognition dawns as we traverse the new corridor. We've entered the children's cancer wing, a place teeming with my own memories. It's not just any hallway; it's a timeline of my life—marked by pain and laughter, triumphs and setbacks.

This is where Luke and I shared moments of joy in my darkest times.

Where Kinsley and I sought refuge in simple games.

Where Milli's calls brightened my gloomiest days.

Here, I began to carve out my own path, distinct from my father's expectations.

Now, I'm engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions. Is my return here fate or just another cruel joke by the universe? I wouldn't be surprised either way.

Abruptly, I freeze, my gaze fixed down the corridor. Harper continues on, undeterred. The glass windows lining the hallway offer glimpses into the lives of the children, each room a story in itself.

I spot a child, a mirror of the younger me, who once occupied a similar space.

A child clinging to hope amidst the relentless barrage of grim news and medical verdicts.

A child, each day a renewed vow to fight for life.

A child longing for a future, just like I once did.

And here I am, the complete antithesis of that fighting spirit.

A wave of guilt washes over me, settling heavily in my gut. Subconsciously, my hand rubs my stomach as Harper looks back, her eyebrows arched inquisitively. "You coming, Miles?"

I straighten up, mustering a facade of composure to mask the turmoil within. No, I won't let my guard down. Not here, not in front of Harper, not amidst these other kids.

I quicken my pace to catch up with her. We move from window to window, my heart lodged in my throat. Each child's story strikes a chord.

We're back where it all started, but this time it's different.

Children of various ages fill the wing. The youngest, mere infants, radiate innocence and curiosity. Toddlers toddle, their laughter echoing through the halls. The older ones, though young, wear expressions shaped by their battles—a mix of resilience and hard-won joy.

Walking beside Harper, I'm struck by a sense of connection with these kids.

Miles, this isn't just history repeating.

I stop outside a room where a young boy named Ralph, about three years old, is absorbed in playing with a toy car. His parents are there, supporting him. The window is a mosaic of stickers, drawings, and messages, each marking a milestone in his journey against Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.

"He's not expected to make it past five," Harper says, her voice tinged with sadness.

Before I can fully grasp the gravity of Ralph's situation, Harper guides us to another window. Inside, two girls, Adenly and August, both Harper's age, mirror her vibrancy. Their window is adorned with symbols of shared adventures, highlighting a deep bond among them.

I was supposed to pop in, say hi to Harper, and leave. Not confront all this. Not today.

Harper waves at the girls, and their grins mirror my own. In their eyes, I see my younger self—thrilled by the novelty of a new face, a break from the routine judgments and treatments.