82

My father led me upstairs.

As I entered the room, the air in the room was thick with the sterile scent of medical equipment.

It felt strange .

The whole room lookedike a hospital room.

It is a constant reminder of the battle my mother, Maria was bravely fighting.

The room, resembling a hospital ward, echoed with the hum of machines and soft footsteps of attending servants dedicated to her care.

My father seems to be spending too much for her care.

He told me that doctors have given up, that the cancer might not get cured now. But he wants my mother to have the best medical care.

My heart sank as I took in the sight of my mother.

She looked so pale and skinny.

She was frail and weakened by the relentless grasp of late-stage lung cancer.

Tubes and wires snaked across the room, connecting my mother to various monitors and IV drips.

Even the scenario scares me.

The soft glow of monitors cast an eerie light on her pale face, reflecting the toll the illness had taken.

My eyes welled with