Chapter 97: the planning

The morning light streamed through the curtains, catching the dust motes that danced lazily in the air. I found my father in his favorite armchair, blanket draped over his legs, a cup of tea steaming in his hands. He looked smaller somehow, not in presence—he was still my father, still a figure of strength—but in the way his shoulders slumped just a little, in the way he sipped his tea with deliberate care.

I knelt beside him, taking his hand. “Good morning, Dad. Sleep well?”

He offered a small smile. “Better than I have in weeks. I think knowing we’re going to make these days count… it’s given me something to look forward to.”

I nodded, squeezing his hand. “We’re going to make them unforgettable.”

Lucian appeared behind me, wrapping a comforting arm around my shoulders. “We’ve been thinking about ideas for today,” he said softly. “Something simple, but meaningful.”

The girls burst into the room a moment later, their backpacks still slightly crooked from school, hair sticking out in different directions, and eyes shining with energy. “Grandpa!” Aria yelled, barreling toward him. Arianna and Arian followed in quick succession, flinging themselves into his lap, arms and legs tangled together in chaotic affection.

He laughed, a rich, warm sound that made my chest ache. “I’ve missed this,” he said. “All of you. I want to soak it in, every bit.”

I watched as the girls whispered little secrets into his ear, shared drawings, and showed him tiny accomplishments from school. Arian had made a neat list of things they could do together this week, ticking off what she called “priority moments.” Arianna, always thoughtful, presented him with a handmade card decorated with stickers, glitter, and hearts. Aria, loud and unfiltered, simply hugged him over and over, squealing, “I love you, Grandpa! Don’t ever leave!”

Cassian, of course, had to insert himself theatrically. “This is monumental! Today marks the official launch of Grandpa’s ‘Legacy of Love’ week!”

Adrian muttered something about exaggeration, while Lucian smirked knowingly. “I think it suits the occasion.”

I knelt beside my father, brushing a strand of gray-tinged hair from his forehead. “We thought we’d start small today,” I said. “A picnic in the park. Just us, some sandwiches, blankets, and the girls. Nothing fancy, just… time together.”

His eyes softened. “I’d like that. And maybe tomorrow… we could start a little scrapbook project? Photos, notes, stories… something the girls and I can build together.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Exactly. Every memory counts, Dad. Every laugh, every picture, every silly moment… we’ll keep them all.”

Lucian led the charge in organizing the picnic supplies, while the girls insisted on helping. Cassian offered “expert supervision,” which mostly involved standing in the middle of the living room waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton. Adrian muttered calculations about sandwich ratios, napkin counts, and optimal blanket placement.

When we finally arrived at the park, the autumn leaves crunched beneath our feet, the air crisp and alive with the scent of earth and pine. The girls immediately ran ahead, chasing squirrels, skipping over roots, and squealing at every leaf that floated by. My father laughed, walking slowly behind them, letting the little bursts of energy warm him like sunlight.

We spread the blanket under a large oak tree, and for a few hours, it was just us. We ate sandwiches, fed breadcrumbs to the pigeons, and shared stories from when I was a child—funny mishaps, silly mistakes, moments of pride. My father listened, chuckling, offering commentary, sometimes quietly shedding a tear when a memory carried too much weight.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” he said softly, looking at the girls. “All three of you… so full of life. I wanted to see this, Sophie. I wanted to see them grow.”

I reached for his hand. “And you will, Dad. Every moment we can make together, we’ll make it count. And we’ll make sure they always remember you.”

Later, we played games in the park. Lucian joined the girls in a spirited round of tag, laughing as Arianna surprised everyone with her agility. Arian calculated the perfect angles to intercept her father and cousins, while Aria ran with unbridled joy, her laughter ringing across the field. Cassian, naturally, declared himself the referee, though he seemed to spend more time dramatically pointing out “rule violations” than actually enforcing anything. Adrian quietly watched, occasionally offering strategic advice, which Lucian ignored entirely.

By mid-afternoon, everyone collapsed onto the blanket, tired and sun-warmed. My father leaned back, taking a deep breath. “You know,” he said slowly, “I think these moments… these simple things… they mean more than I ever realized. Life isn’t just the big events. It’s this—laughter, warmth, love. Every day we have left, I want more of this.”

“I promise,” I said, pressing my forehead to his. “We’ll fill your days with all the moments that matter. And we’ll make memories even after you’re gone.”

Lucian squeezed my hand. “Every day. Together.”

On the drive home, the girls dozed in the backseat, their energy spent, the car filled with the soft hum of the engine and quiet conversation. My father leaned back in his seat, eyes half-closed, content, the weight of his diagnosis tempered by the love around him.

That night, after dinner, we sat together planning the next few weeks. I suggested we make a list of “legacy moments”—special activities, small adventures, and creative projects we could all do together. My father eagerly contributed, suggesting everything from making scrapbooks to storytelling nights, board game marathons, and weekend baking sessions.

“We could even start a video diary,” I suggested. “Capture messages for the girls to remember you by, stories, advice… things they can watch when they’re older.”

His eyes brightened, a spark of excitement that had been dimmed by illness now flickering back to life. “Yes. And we could record songs, too… silly songs, maybe even dances! They’ll laugh and love it.”

Lucian smiled at me, quietly supportive. “This is perfect. Every memory, every laugh, every silly moment… it counts.”

We ended the night holding hands in the living room, a quiet moment of unity and purpose. My father, though weaker than before, radiated a kind of peace, knowing that the months ahead, while limited, would be full of meaning, full of love.

And as I watched him smile at the girls playing quietly with blocks nearby, I made a silent vow: every day, we would make it count. Every laugh, every hug, every story, every whispered word of love would be a treasure, a legacy of the time we had together.

Because life, no matter how short, was measured not in years, but in moments—and we were going to make each one unforgettable.