“At the very least, it’ll be a few weeks, or at least until the doctor can run some tests.” I had asked the nurse how long my father would be in the hospital, expecting a response of “Oh just a few days,” or at most, “A week, tops.” I had not him to need any further procedures, so at the nurse’s reply, I was in full-fledged panic. I had believed my father, historically stoic, sitting inches away from me in his wheelchair, was merely in need of a checkup.

 

It was not until the next day that I realized none of my other family members seemed shocked to hear the news; my father least of all perturbed. When I asked my mother about it, she informed me that the rest of the family had known of my father’s condition, and they had collectively decided to withhold this from me. To hear that my family didn’t believe I was mature enough to handle such information was insulting. This was my dad in the hospital after all, the one who I had learned everything from. He taught me how to walk, how to talk, how to laugh and smile. He loved to take me hiking; Together, we scaled countless mountains, reached improbable heights, and achieved the impossible. So didn’t I deserve to know? Was I really so immature that my family didn’t trust me? Or was it to ‘protect me,’ as they claimed?