From the Publisher

Standing alone in front of the mirror, seeing my brown eyes looking back at me, I replay what I've just said to my dad.

I grip the bathroom counter and bite my lower lip. I've heard those words as a son countless times and have said them as a dad just as many, but this was a first.

Dad said he wanted to take care of himself and Mom.

I told my dad, "No, you can't do that."

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I got to my parents' house in Sequim in February 2023, following a two-hour drive, and asked Dad what stores we need to go to today. Dad said Costco and Safeway, and Mom asked what are we getting. Dad read the list to her, as was his practice, followed by several more recitations before and after going to the store.

My sister, who also lives in Mason County, and I have been checking on our parents for years. Mom survived polio as a child and breast cancer in her 50s, and now she's nearly blind and suffering from dementia. Dad had had two strokes, but both were alive at age 86 and able to celebrate their 66th wedding anniversary.

Dad said he wasn't going with me to the store, and I asked why.

"I started bleeding," he said.

"What? How much? How long?" I asked.

Dad said a couple of days.

I told him I'm calling the doctor.

"No," he replied. "I'll be fine."

I grew up hearing "no" a lot from Dad. Can I go to the dance? "No." A "no" from Dad was always the end of the discussion.

I would then say OK, later sharing what happened with Mom. Evenings would have them sitting in their chairs, and Mom might ask Dad why he told me "no."

" 'No?' I don't know. Just did," he'd reply.

They would finish their drinks and their discussion. Sometimes Mom would come back to me and tell me to ask Dad again.

On this occasion 14 months ago, talking to Mom was not an option, but I had a better option. I called my sister. We ended up in the emergency room at 4 p.m. on a Friday. At midnight in the exam room, a young man entered and introduced himself as our doctor. He apologized for the wait and said he had been discussing Dad's condition with other doctors.

Then he told Dad, "I believe you have kidney cancer."

Fourteen hours earlier, I was wondering whether I should pick up two or three cases of Ensure. Now, I'm wondering about cancer.

Dad responded, "OK, what do we need to do?"

Dad was home following surgery to remove a kidney and cut the cancer from his inferior vena cava. The day we brought him home, I watched Mom lean in to kiss Dad and say, "I love you ... even if you only have one kidney."

My sister and I stayed with my parents during the months of recovery. We saw and heard so much. Our mom lying in bed singing hymns. Each night, Dad would go to bed before Mom so he could warm her side of the bed. We got to see the meaning of love.

I thought I knew my Dad. He was reserved and quiet, and I only recall him belly-laughing with his best friend, Dutch, while they talked about something they had done. But now I learned he was more passionate, observant and appreciative of the little things than I ever imagined.

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I lean closer to the mirror, looking deeper into those brown eyes, now rimmed by red. I drop my head to break the stare. The world has changed with five words.

A deep breath, I push away, open the door and walk around the corner. I pick up a cup with a straw, and kneeling next to the couch, I guide the straw between his lips.

I see those brown eyes of the man I want to be.

I looked into those eyes one last time about a month later, the day he passed away. Now I am left with only the brown eyes in the mirror.