It was Christmas time. It was snowing outside and everything was covered in a thin layer of whiteness. That chilly evening, my dad stood by our Christmas tree. He had always wanted the perfect tree, and there it was, grand and fragrant, filling our home with the scent of pine.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, a sight both unfamiliar and unsettling to me. I stayed back, observing him from the kitchen. He held each ornament, as if trying to hold back a tide of dark thoughts. I remember thinking how thin he looked.

Shortly after that Christmas, we noticed Dad’s health declining. Confused and concerned, Mom took him to the doctor. After tests and anxious waiting, the call came. It was bad news. His liver, ravaged by years of alcohol abuse, was in bad shape. He had liver cancer.

Dad’s health had always been a patchwork of ailments and surgeries, but this was different. This time, he spent three weeks in the hospital, a web of tubes and monitors around him.

When he finally returned home, it was a relief, yet his fragility was more pronounced. A nurse came regularly, assisting with his recovery. But one day, as we waited for her, Dad stopped breathing. Panic-stricken, we managed to rouse him. He opened his eyes briefly before he slipped back into a fitful sleep.

Again, his breath halted, and again, we woke him, fear tightening its grip on us.

The nurse arrived and immediately recommended the emergency room. We were all lost in unspoken emotions, unsure how to voice our fears and love.

As Dad left for the hospital, I hugged him with a desperate intensity, afraid to let go. “I love you,” I whispered as he got into the car. He smiled, acknowledging my words. Watching the car disappear, I didn’t know it was our final goodbye.

In the eight months since, laughter has become scarce in our home. Envy stings me when I see other families with their fathers. Sometimes, I forget he’s gone and enter his room, hoping for a conversation, only to be met with emptiness.

The tears for Dad still come, a river that refuses to dry. His spirit, though, remains undimmed in my memories and love. His absence has etched a profound message in my heart—the urgency to cherish every moment and the peril of delaying change. His battle with liver cancer, a silent yet loud reminder of alcohol’s destructive path, resonates with a warning: don’t wait to make a change, for time is a luxury we don’t always have.

In his memory, I find strength and a resolve to share his story, hoping it might inspire others to seek healthier paths before it’s too late. His last Christmas, lit by the glow of our family tree, now serves as a beacon, guiding me to advocate for awareness and change.