I bought shoes for him. They were pretty and comfortable, and when I placed them in front of his door and knocked, he instantly came to fetch them. I saw from behind the kitchen door as he took them inside the room, all while wearing a conflicted smile. A smile that, despite the agony behind it, looked good. It was way too familiar, the only feature he had inherited from his father. The eyes and the nose were of his mother. Our mother. The next day I saw him outside of my room, with the medical reports in his lap. I kneeled down, took the papers, and read them.
That was all it took. I didn’t know whether I should cry or not. All I could muster was a weak smile. He nodded knowingly and pointed at his feet. The shoes looked good. Really good. And it was about time they would get worn out.
