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Clyde always did more for others than others did for him. It’s sad when you think about it.

It’s the hottest summer we’ve had in a while. I’m knee-deep in mud, trying to keep the pigs cool with water from the hose when the nursing home calls again.

I shift in the chair, feeling the cold vinyl under me, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. “Given where we are medically, I think home is the right place for him now,” Dr. Caldwell says, settling his clipboard on his knee.

His voice is careful. Rehearsed. It’s the voice of a man who’s delivered this particular kind of news before.

“We’ve done everything medicine can offer. Seven years of observation, monitoring adjustments. And now…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “His state has changed. Not improved but changed. I want to be honest with you about that. He’s not going to recover. Please don’t think this is his first step on the road to recovery. I know when I mention this to families…”

“I’m not thinking that, doctor.”

“Yes, but most…”

“Again, I’m not most. I understand what you’re saying.”

He nods. “So, you understand that although he’s transitioned out of a full vegetative state into what we call minimally conscious, although he’s able to track and understand, he won’t…”

“Wait.” I throw up my hand, allowing my brain to catch up with what he just said. “He’s able to understand?” How did I not come across that in my research?

He nods his head. “Possibly, but we can’t be certain. There is awareness there now that wasn’t there before. So one can assume.” He leans forward slightly. “Every case is different. It’s hard to be certain. Everything is known on a case-by-case measure.”

He folds his hands. “In terms of why home and not another long-term facility, frankly we feel that he doesn’t need another facility, he needs to be home. He needs a familiar environment, consistent care. Family. You’re not only his daughter, but you’re a medically educated daughter. That’s why we feel he’s better suited to spend whatever time he may have left with you and not in another place like this.”

Whatever time he may have left. As if that’s not entirely up to me.

I keep my face still.

My father… at that house? Under my care?

Cold moves through me. I knew this was coming. This is the next logical step. I know that it’s not up to them where he ends up. I’m his next of kin. It falls on my shoulders, not theirs. I have every right to send him somewhere, anywhere else, but home with me. And home? What does that mean? Am I willing to bring that man to the cabin? The only place I’ve ever felt safe. Do I taint my safe place with his presence? What’s the alternative? That house?

His house?

Damn it all to hell. What am I supposed to do?

My chest tightens, and a shiver runs down my spine, cold as the Appalachian winters. I already know my decision. I’m going to walk back through the door I promised myself I never would again. I grip the edge of the desk, the room tilting as bile rises in my throat. Maybe I should tell him what my father used to do to me. You know what they say, the truth shall set you free.

“Lydia?” Dr. Caldwell’s voice cuts through the fog, soft but probing. “Are you all right?”

I nod quickly, a reflex, though I’m anything but all right. The air in the room feels thin, sharp. My head buzzes, memories clawing their way to the surface. Him standing over me, his voice low and venomous. His fingers gripping my wrists, the rancid stink of whiskey on his breath as he whispered, You’re mine, Lydia. Mine to mold into what God needs you to be.

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

Dr. Caldwell doesn’t look convinced. His brow furrows, the clipboard in his hand forgotten. “I know this isn’t easy to consider. Having to care for your father in his condition. I understand this situation isn’t ideal. We will arrange for a hospice palliative caregiver to come to the house to help with the heavy lifting. We don’t expect you to handle everything on your own.”

I want to scream at him. To tell him that I’m the last person who should be caring for my father. There’s nothing familiar about me. Instead, I swallow hard and force a shallow breath.

“Yes. I will definitely need some help.” I give a small smile.

“Let me go down the hall and grab Cecilia. She’s the nurse in charge of comfort care. She’ll want to speak with you about your needs, the house layout. What type of medical equipment we’ll need to order.”

I shoot up before he gets a chance to stand. “I… I need some air,” I mumble, pushing past Caldwell and slipping out into the hallway.

My pulse hammers in my ears as I stumble toward the exit, breaths tight and shallow, like I can’t quite pull enough air into my chest. The moment I hit the outside, the cold air smacks into me, sharp and unforgiving. I double over, hands on my knees, as my stomach twists hard, the nausea rolling through me in waves.

Behind my eyes, the memories come fast and hard. His hand clamped on the back of my neck, shoving me to my knees in forced prayer while the congregation’s hymns drifted down from upstairs. His voice, sinking low and rough, murmuring about discipline and obedience. The belt. The bruises. The quiet, chilling promises that he would shape me into the perfect daughter.

The perfect servant.