My father left when I was two. No goodbye. No explanations. Just pain. My mother raised me alone, working two jobs, sacrificing everything to give me a good life. She never badmouthed him — she wanted me to forgive him. I never could. Years later, my heart began failing. I needed a complex surgery, but no doctor would take the risk. Then my mother suggested a specialist in another city — Dr. Smith. I laughed bitterly. That was my father’s name. When I met him, I recognized him instantly. He didn’t,
know who I was. But when I told him, the truth hit him like a storm. I refused to let him treat me. “I’d rather die than let you be my doctor,” I said. My condition worsened. No other doctor would help. My boyfriend, Ernie, grew distant and refused to support me. One day, my father showed up at my door. I wanted to slam it shut,
