💔 ( for jack )
2. My muse tells yours that they have a terminal illness.
He’d gone to the doctor for a check-up. He’d been more tired than usual and he’d been paler than usual. Miguel had been pressuring him. Randall had been pressuring him. Kate had pressured him. Rebecca have given him looks for the last few weeks, but he hadn’t been sure what they meant (and he still wasn’t entirely sure about the expression’s meaning).
Jack figured his bill-of-health would come back. Hell, he’d survived Vietnam, a house fire, and a heart attack. Nothing could take him down. That didn’t seem to be the case. He’d gone. He’d gotten some bloodwork and some scans. He found out the truth.
Somehow even with all those tests he was home before dinner time. “It smells amazing in here, Becca,” he said, kissing his wife on the neck. “What exactly are we having?”
This was stalling. He knew it. She probably knew it. She seemed to know things before they happened. He probably should tell her. Maybe after supper? Probably not. “All that nagging from Miguel and the kids got me to go to the doc’s today,” he started. “And... Becca.... it’s not exactly good. I guess the smoke did something to me a couple years back and I’ve got cancer. Leukemia I think...”