Page 10 of To Tango, with Desire

“When are you going to get surgery, Dad? You know what the doctors said.”

“Pah! Those bastards should be paying for it. Not me.”

I sighed, perching on the arm of his chair. “But they’re not.”

After my dad had suffered a fall on a construction build two years ago, he’d taken the company to court in an attempt to get them to pay for his physiotherapy. They’d claimed they weren’t at fault, and after being buried in legal fees fighting their slick team of lawyers, my parents had nothing left of their savings, having to redraw on their home loan, shifting to an interest-only mortgage, just to make ends meet. In the end, they’d had to give up the fight with the only thing that the lawyers had acceded to paying being his existing medical bills.

The stress had caused him to have multiple heart attacks, and the doctors had found severe blockages that required open-heart surgery. Of which, my dad refused. I was afraid that if we didn’t get him back in the hospital, the next time I’d see him would be in a coffin.

“Amira, habibti, I can’t afford to get surgery. I can’t afford to not work.”

“For God’s sake, Dad, why won’t you let me help you then?”

“That’s your money,” he replied, a stubborn glint in his eyes.

“And this is your health.” If it hadn’t been for a friend of his who was willing to take him on in a part-time capacity training apprentices, my dad would have struggled to find any kind of work at his age. “Dad, you’re in your sixties, you’re not eighteen anymore. You should be planning your retirement in a few years, not worrying about money.”

“And who will pay for your wedding?”

“What wedding?! I’m single for heaven’s sake!”

“We have bills to pay. A mortgage.” He tsked at me, shaking his head.

I didn’t tell him I had started to pay for the groceries and some of the bills on the sly. That was between my mother and me. “I have money saved up. I can help pay the mortgage. I told you—”

“I can’t afford to take the time off. You heard the doctors.”

“Yes, I did. You have a bulging disc. You won’t be able to even move if you carry on like this. At least get one of the surgeries under way.”

“Amira, please.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Pah! I’m not scared.”

I knew it wasn’t true. I knew my father didn’t like the idea of open-heart surgery, which was the more pressing of the two. The doctors wanted to go ahead with the procedure, but once Dad had heard about the potential risks, he was vehemently against it. He couldn’t get his back surgery without the heart surgery first. It was just too high of a risk.

“I’m strong as an ox. The thing they put in my heart—”

“The stent—”

“Stent, mesh, whatever it is, it’s fixed it.”

“Temporarily, Dad.”

The major blockages in his heart and the nature of his disease meant my dad was a ticking time bomb. He didn’t need any stress, least of all to worry about paying bills. I rolled my shoulders, trying to dislodge the heavy weight.

Dad took my hand, running his finger in circles on my palm. It was a soothing gesture I remembered from childhood, but it failed to ease any tension. “Amira, a man should work.”

“Thick-headed.” My mother tapped her temple.

I stood. “Mom, don’t start.”

“You need to listen to your daughter, Hasan.”

My dad cut the air with a frustrated hand wave. “I listen to her when she brings me her future husband.”

I sat down on the sofa, feeling like it was Groundhog Day. “I’m not getting married. Accept it. It’s time to look after your health and focus on your grandchildren. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve found a potential place to rent out for my business, and I can move out—”