"Remember Me Sometimes"

When his child fades, a father’s love becomes the only cure left.

Chapter One: If I Die Too...

Every detail of that day stuck in my head like a splinter: the dull light through half-closed blinds, the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air, the hollow weight of despair.

The chair creaked beneath me, a sharp, nerve-scraping sound. We sat across from the doctor. He shuffled the papers in silence, fingers sliding over the sheets like he was searching for something. But I knew he was just stalling, dragging it out.

What is it? Pneumonia? Anemia? Overwork? Some deficiency, some vitamin thing. Anything. Anything but...

He stopped. Exhaled quietly. The folder landed on the desk. Then he lifted his eyes. They were tired, distant. And in them was already the thing he was about to say. I knew it a second before he opened his mouth.

"Your daughter has acute lymphoblastic leukemia — what we call ALL," he finally said.

My wife covered her face with her hands and began rocking back and forth. I froze. My head filled with noise. I suddenly remembered smashing a thermometer as a kid, picking up the mercury beads with a scrap of paper, sure I was about to die. And now it was the same feeling. The same emptiness inside.

They gave us a list of tests and referrals and sent us to the hematology unit—where Mary would be treated. A separate elevator. A separate floor. A separate life we now had to move into.

Mary—only six at the time—sat on a bench, playing with a rubber toy dog, unaware that her life had already changed forever.
That evening my wife cried until dawn. I sat beside her in silence. I simply didn't know how to live with it.

The next few days blurred together: tests, blood draws, a bone marrow biopsy, ultrasounds, X-rays—one after another. The doctors spoke in code—blast cells, chemo, remission, treatment protocol.
I nodded and wrote it all down—every word—because I didn't understand any of it. Later, I researched it online and explained it to my wife. She listened, then slipped into the bathroom and cried quietly again.

Mary, of course, didn't understand any of it. She just lay there watching cartoons. For her, nothing had really changed—at least, not yet. And I kept thinking: how could this be? Why her? Why at all?

I didn't tell anyone at work. Why? So they'd pity me? Look at me like some sob story? I didn't need pity — I needed someone to say, 'Do this, and it'll get easier.' But it doesn't work that way. This is life. Everyone has their own. And, truth be told, nobody really gives a damn what's happening to you.

I went through those days like a zombie—out in the morning, back at night. On weekends I swapped shifts with my wife at the hospital. I brought food, water, a change of clothes, toys, books.

Mary lay under the IV drip. I read to her. She kept glancing at the central line in her chest — the subclavian catheter — and the tubes that fed into it.

"Dad, what's this for?"

"This little thing, gives you magic potion to fight the bad guys."

"How long's it gonna take?"

I stroked her head and said.
"Not long, sweetie. We're just playing a game. You have to complete the
missions, and there's a prize at the end."

"What if I can't?"

Something inside me twisted. But I smiled and said.
"Hey. Of course you will. You're our champion."

"Dad, read me about Solana! Right from the start — I don't remember it
anymore."

Solana — it was a story about a little orphan girl living in a children's home. Once, as a joke, I started making up a fairy tale for my daughter on the fly. Then it grew into something bigger, and in my spare time I began writing down the next chapters.

"From the very beginning?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"All right then. Listen."

**

'On the edge of an old town, tucked behind the dense canopy of ancient trees, stood a modest building. It was an orphanage called the House of Hope.

Its three weatherworn storeys made it seem a place long forgotten. A wrought-iron fence, its spear-points tall and menacing, stood guard, holding back the harsh world, the same world that had driven so many children to its doors.

Beyond the fence, in a garden grown wild with flowers and unruly rosebushes, the surly gardener, Blaze, went about his work at a slow, steady pace. His hands, rough and calloused, wielded the pruning scissors with quiet certainty, snipping back defiant canes. There was a thoughtful sorrow in his face, as if he were weighing something private, lost somewhere in the past. Blaze was neither old nor young. He was alone.

He had lived at the house since the day it was founded, even before it ever heard the tread of orphaned feet. He had begun his work here under Count Worcester, who, lovestruck and happy, had built the manor for his bride, Lady Elizabeth. Blaze remembered how the Count had shown him the plans with boyish delight, dreaming of noisy feasts and the laughter of children racing through the great rooms.

But fate played him a cruel trick. Lady Elizabeth—young and lovely as a spring rose—left this world, and the Count was left alone with unspoken words and bitter grief. Blaze was there; he saw the pain and shared in it.

In the end, Count Worcester turned the estate into an orphanage. Then he set off on an expedition to faraway Africa, where he vanished without a trace in the boundless wilds. The estate—and Blaze with it—passed to a distant relative of the Count Worcester, Mrs Brenton.
She was a widow, and she detested children.

But this is not Blaze's story, nor Count Worcester's, and certainly not Mrs Brenton's.

This is Solana's story—the story of a little orphan girl who had spent all her remembered—and unremembered—life here, in the House of Hope.

**

The corridor of the orphanage was shrouded in gloom. Only the dim light of a cloudy day seeped through the dust-filmed windows. The air itself seemed heavy with despair, as if the walls had absorbed the children's grief.

Solana pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Her thin shoulders shook with sobs. Tears of misery streamed down her cheeks, leaving wet tracks across her worn apron. Her heart felt hollow, a bottomless well of loneliness. Her soul longed for a parent's touch she had never felt. Every breath she took carried the weight of pain and loneliness. Her gaze drifted back to the silver locket on the windowsill. Its open lid, like a wounded heart, reflected the same emptiness she felt inside.

The locket bore neither initials nor engraving—only the cold gleam of metal, as if it mirrored the abyss of her solitude. A bitter tear slipped down her cheek and dropped into the hollow of the locket. In its chill reflection Solana saw her own face, twisted with sorrow.

"Why is this world so cruel?" she whispered, her voice trembling with stifled despair.

She snapped the locket shut as if trapping her pain inside. She wiped her tears quickly with her sleeve, hiding her weakness from the world.

"There she is—the thief!" A pierced cry split the silence of the corridor, and
Solana spun round. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.

A few steps away stood three familiar figures: Beanpole, with her prickling stare and untamed hair; Fatty, clutching a pair of tailor's scissors; and Pretty, her gloating smirk promising nothing good.

"Hand it over," Pretty said, "And we won't make you suffer long. After all, it's your birthday today." Her eyes glinted with malice as her lips curled into a mocking grin.
The scornful laughter of Pretty's cronies pierced Solana like an icy wind. Pretty stretched out her hand, waiting for obedience.

"I'm no thief," Solana retorted. Her voice trembled, but her resolve held. "This locket is mine."

Pretty smirked, plainly enjoying the defiance.
"I found it on the floor," she hissed, right in Solana's face. "And that makes it mine. So you stole it from me. No one steals from me!"

Fatty and Beanpole closed in on Solana.
"Thief!" Fatty growled.
"Give back the locket!" Beanpole demanded.

*

Money got tight right away. We had no savings — living paycheck to paycheck. After my day job I picked up Uber shifts — I drove until midnight, ferrying people in silence. Some tried to chat, make small talk; I nodded, mumbled back, but my mind was always there — with Mary.

At home, even if just for an hour or two, I sat down at the computer. I searched for everything I could find: articles, other people's stories, forums for parents whose kids had leukemia. I saved posts about survival rates, chemo, side effects, medical mistakes. A new folder appeared on my desktop — Mary.

And I read through the nights, until my eyes burned. Some stories ended in death. Others — in recovery. I copied them into my computer like survival manuals. A kind of guide through hell.

One night my wife quietly said the word I had been avoiding at all costs — death.
I snapped at her:
"Don't ever say that word! Don't you dare give up! Don't even let yourself think it."

After that, something shifted between us. A new mix of fear and hope settled in. Maybe that's how it had to be — for us to grasp how serious this was.

I'm no hero, no saint. I'm just a father who won't leave his daughter alone in this hell.

*

Every Sunday started the same way. Up at six. Coffee in a thermos, a change of clothes, a towel, some food in the backpack. Sometimes something from home: her pillow, warm socks, an old T-shirt. Little things, to pull her out of hospital reality for at least a couple of hours.

The road I knew by heart: the signs, the turns, the potholes. The city slid past, indifferent — like a neighbor pretending not to hear the screams next door. People grabbing coffee, walking their dogs, laughing into their phones. And my day was IV drips, vitals chart, drug names I had to memorize, and cartoons I had to download so they wouldn't freeze during playback.

The ward was quiet. Parents still asleep, kids too. Only the nurse's desk light glowed. I walked by, nodded — she already knew we were switching shifts.

"Morning."
"Mm-hm."

The nurses' station stood near the start of the long corridor. From it a short side hall branched off. On the right there was a cramped little nook: a couple of tables, kettles, a microwave, and a fridge.

Inside — bags and containers, each labeled with a surname so no one would mix them up. The shelves were the same: everyone had their own, and no one touched anyone else's.

Farther down the side hall were the showers, then the restrooms.

Beyond the station the corridor stretched on, lined with rooms on both sides. Benches too—parents sat there talking, helping each other out, though everyone carried their own private grief and no one pushed deeper than necessary. Each bore their burden quietly, carefully, in their own way.

My wife met me in the room—exhausted, but not angry. Just wrung out, like she'd been squeezed dry over the week, left half-lighter, half-quieter.

"Hi. Everything okay? Try to get her to eat later—she felt sick today."

"How about you?"

"I'm fine. Shower, bed, and sleep. Don't call unless it's urgent."

She kissed Mary on the crown of her head, gave me a nod, and left. I stood in the doorway until I heard the elevator doors close. Each time I thought—how does she keep going? When she's already at the edge, when it feels like there's nothing left.

Mary lay bundled in a blanket up to her eyes. Only they were visible—big, tired, staring right through me. Her skin was pale, lips dry and cracked. On the bedside table sat a glass of water with a straw, and beside it a shabby stuffed fox, long since promoted to her silent companion.

"Hey, champ," I said, trying to smile.

She blinked.
"Is today your day off?"

"Well, depends how you look at it. Today I'm your quest partner. All day. No breaks."

"Good," she whispered. "Mom's run out of strength for her shift."
She was quiet a moment, then said softly:
"Dad... Jenna from the next room left."

"They discharged her?" I asked, clinging to hope, though my heart had already dropped.

Mary inched closer and whispered right into my ear:
"Everyone says she left... but I know. She died."

I froze. My throat thickened, heavy. I had no words. Silence was all I could
manage.

And then she added, just as calm, just as quiet:
"If I die too... remember me sometimes. Will you promise?"

Something inside me collapsed. I couldn't speak. I just held her. Tight. Silent. For a long time.

Later, back in the little fridge nook, I broke. The sobs came like a tidal wave. No tears—just a lump in my throat I couldn't swallow, air I couldn't breathe. I sat down on the tiled floor, feeling like something shattered. No thoughts. No strength.
Only her whisper hammering in my head: 'If I die too... remember me sometimes'.

I forced a smile later and back, touched her forehead—no fever. Picked up the chart from the bedside table. Today: IV, injections, blood smear and—we'd try to eat.

Feeding Mary was its own quest. No appetite, nausea constant. But she had to eat. Slowly, carefully, with breaks. One bite—pause. A few sips—cartoon. She ate two spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and said:
"Dad, everything tastes like soap in my mouth."

"It's a side effect. It'll pass."

"I hate side effects."

"Me too, kiddo."

After we ate, we drew. I can't draw, but she never let me off.
"Draw us at the ocean, Dad!"

I picked up a pencil and tried to sketch the three of us on the beach—hair whipping in the wind, waves crashing. But it didn't turn out well: the ocean looked like soup, and we like scribbles.

She looked and burst out laughing.
"Dad, you're a terrible artist—just scribbles."

"I did my best. I think it turned out pretty good. Might even sell it on Sotheby's someday."

"That's awful!" she pulled a face, giggling. "But you're not such a bad writer," she added with a sly little smile.

"Not such a bad? I'm a good writer!" I protested, pretending to be offended.

"Then where's the next part about Solana? You promised."

"Aha, so that's what this is really about," I said, narrowing my eyes. "You little trickster."

She grinned wider.

"Okay, okay. I did promise—and I keep my word."

She lay down again. No strength left. I sat by her and read:

**

'The House of Hope was a place where hope died slowly. All that remained were the ashes of despair. Young souls, cast off and lost in the world, languished here in quiet, hopeless anguish.

But among them stood a trio everyone feared. They called themselves the Crazy Girls: Pretty, Fatty, and Beanpole.

The three had found each other in that cold, unfeeling place. They swore a blood oath to stay loyal until the end. Their bond was fierce, their devotion absolute. They mocked the other orphans. They tormented the weak. They boasted of their "feats" and relished their impunity. Their strength was proven in violence, their rule built on fear. Shy boys, dreamy girls, anyone too timid to fight back—all became their prey.

The House of Hope had turned into a playground for their cruelty. They were tyrants here. No one dared oppose them. Their cruelty knew no bounds.


Solana had never known her parents. She had been found as a tiny baby on the orphanage steps, clutching this very locket in her little hand.

She guarded it as if her life depended on it. She never took it off, not even when she slept. In the quiet hours, when all others were dreaming, she would slip it from under her dress and run her fingers over its smooth surface.

The locket seemed to hold a secret within it—a key to the past, to the mystery of her mother.
Sometimes Solana imagined her mother: beautiful, with long dark hair and gentle eyes. She pictured herself at her side. Yet those visions came and went like fleeting flashes in her imagination.

Still, Solana hoped, believing her mother had not abandoned her.
That the locket was more than an ornament. It was a symbol of love, a promise her mother had left her. And Solana was ready to fight for it. She knew this locket was the only piece of her mother she had, and she would not give it up to anyone.

"No," Solana said firmly. Pushing Pretty away, Solana bolted.

"Stop!" surprisingly quick for her bulk, Fatty was the first to dart after Solana.
"Catch her!" shrieked Beanpole, her thin, cruel voice slicing through the air.

"She won't escape," Pretty called, hurrying after them, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Let's teach her a lesson!"

Solana raced down the corridor, and each step made her heart seize tighter with dread. She searched desperately for escape. Spotting a door, she flung herself at it.
Locked!

The bullies were closing in, their heavy footsteps pounding closer in a menacing rhythm.

She bolted toward the next door. Fatty's breath was hot on her neck. In panic, Solana shoved at the handle. This time the door gave way, and she stumbled into a tiny storeroom crowded with mops, buckets, and rags.

But Fatty was already upon her. A hard push sent Solana sprawling face-down on the floor.
Fatty grinned with satisfaction as she looked down at Solana lying on the floor. Beanpole came bursting in after her, like a furious cat ready to strike. Last of all was Pretty, her eyes blazing with a sinister fire.
She seized the large scissors from Fatty.

"Hold her down!" Pretty ordered.
Beanpole and Fatty lunged at Solana, pinning her arms to the floor. The silver locket fell from her hand. Pretty snatched it up, then sat astride Solana's back, clutching a fistful of her hair with one hand and gripping the scissors in the other.

Solana squeezed her eyes shut as the cold edge of the scissors brushed against her cheek. Fear seized her, icy and suffocating. She wanted to scream, to fight, but terror had turned her body to stone.

"Think you can defy us?" Pretty hissed. "Well then—here's your new haircut!"

"Chop it! Chop it off!" screeched Beanpole, urging her on.

*

At some point Mary fell asleep. I covered her, went to the nook, poured myself coffee. I was dead tired. But Mary would sweat through her sheets, and I'd have to change them again and again. One of chemo's side effects. I hate side effects.

I opened the laptop. An hour free—so I read the forums again. Parents shared treatment regimens, argued about doctors, raised money. Someone rejoiced: "Six months in remission."
Another wrote: "My son passed yesterday." Dozens of condolences, words of comfort.

But those I wanted to scroll past, fast. As if even a hint of the worst could seep in. I kept scrolling, unable to stop. Like staring into an abyss, hoping for a way out, and finding none. Forgive me. I am so, so, sorry. But I have no right to weakness now. Or maybe—it's simpler. I am just weak. I am not ready yet to be strong enough to accept all this.

One post held me longer. A mother wrote:
"Don't stay silent. Talk to your child, even if they don't ask. They're scared, but when parents are honest and close—they're stronger than us. And remember—everyone has the right to cry."

I closed the laptop. Looked at Mary. She slept, mouth a little open. Such a small, sleepy human. My little one.

"Hold on, baby. I'm here. We're here. You're going to be OK."


To be continued...

________________________________________

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, leave a comment — I'd love to hear your thoughts.
See you in the next chapter!

For those who don't like waiting for new chapters, the full books are available — check the link in my bio!