Disclaimer: I don't own anything. :

I never wanted to be a burden on my father. When I was five and all the girls in my class were talking about the dresses and dolls they hoped would be under the Christmas tree, I went home and wrote a short list. It only had two things on it: Something from Mommy, and a doll in the window at Paulie's. It was a beautiful doll, with a pale, porcelain complexion and curly red hair. I planned to show Daddy the list that night at dinner and as my pudgy hands carefully formed the letters, I heard the phone ring. Padding down the hallway I answered like Daddy taught me.

"Sullivan residence," I said.

"Jamie? It's Mr. Murlock—from church."

"Hello, Mr. Murlock. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Jamie, just fine. Is your father home?"

"No," I replied instantaneously. "I mean, he's busy."
I blushed, knowing I had made a mistake. Daddy always told me never to say I was home alone, but sometimes I forgot.

"Oh, alright," Mr. Murlock said despondently.

"Can I take a message?" I offered brightly.

"Ah, sure, I suppose. Tell him that we need to talk on Sunday… There might not be enough money for the Christmas play if we don't do something to raise it."

I furrowed my eyebrows then, much like young children do when they're thinking. "You mean we're not going to have the show this year?"

I could hear Mr. Murlock's hesitancy and panic. "No, sweetie, I didn't mean it like that. The play will happen, don't you worry."
We talked a few more moments and I hung up, promising I'd tell Daddy he called. I went back to my room and gazed at my Christmas list as it sat upon my desk. I thought of the doll at Paulie's and sadly, I slowly folded the paper up and stuffed it under my bed. I always knew we didn't have lots of money, and even if I didn't understand why, I realized that asking my father for something he couldn't afford would just upset him. I understood that the Christmas play was more important—that I could always ask for the doll another time.
On Christmas morning that year, Daddy gave me Mom's old Bible. His eyes were cautious, hopeful that it would be enough. And as I flipped through the weathered pages, he apologized for not being able to give me more and that he'd make up for it on my birthday. I told him it didn't matter, that Jesus gave us each other, and the firewood to keep us warm. I assured him that those two things were all I needed. He seemed pleased with my answer and that evening, when we went to the play, I swear it was the best performance I've ever seen. He even sat me up on his knees and held me tight, saying over and over again how much he loved me.
I went by Paulie's, just after New Year's. The doll was gone, just like I'd known she would be. But I didn't mind, not really. I'd given her up for the greater good—I'd made my father happy. Ever since then, I've been desperate to please him, to keep the smile on his face like it was that night. I guess that's why this is so hard, sitting here in this cold, desolate room watching him bury his face in his hands. He tries so hard not to cry in front of me, but sometimes when he thinks I'm still at school, I hear him sniffing, choking back sobs.
It's times like those when I question my faith. Daddy never did anything bad, not to anyone. He devoted his life to God, throwing all of his energy into the church. After I was born, he accepted his wife's death through prayer and devotion. He raised me the best he could, making sure I was fed and clothed. Why would the Lord punish him when his life was led free of sin? At first, I would cry myself to sleep because it just didn't make sense—nothing did. Then I found comfort within my mother's old Bible. The psalms about dying always unnerved me, but now…

When you hide your face,
they are terrified;
when you take away their breath,
they die and return to the dust.

Psalm 104:29

Now I understand.

The treatments always leave me feeling sick—sicker than I feel without them. I usually miss a day of school afterward and I lie in bed while assuring Daddy that I'll be okay if he goes to the church. On his way out the door he promises he'll be back in just a few hours. He worries so much about me that I wonder if he even thinks about himself.
Anyway, on the days that I spend at home, I think a lot. I mean, there's not much else to do. I think about the world, and I think about God and then I think about school. And when I think about school I can't help but think about Landon Carter. I sometimes wonder if he does the things that he does because he wants to or because he's expected to. I rarely go a day without hearing some new story involving him and trouble; he's my father's favorite example of someone on the fast track to Hell.
But I don't know. He's obviously not perfect, but then who is? No, he seems to be more misunderstood than anything. I sometimes think that above all, he's hurting. Every so often, when he lets down that guarded expression, I catch a flicker of emotion; perhaps loneliness or something of that nature. Maybe I'm just imagining it. Daddy always tells me that I'm wasting my time when I mention this to him. For a Christian, he sure is stubborn and I say so. He says that when God told us to forgive, he hadn't counted on Landon straying off the Holy Path so badly. I tell him that God plans everything. He smiles and kisses me on the top of my head gently and then we change the topic.
I guess it's my turn to see the doctor. Standing, I take Daddy's hand and he uses his other to wipe his eyes. They're still misty when the doctor takes my blood pressure and I watch as Daddy's face crumples miserably. I stare at my knees, unable to look at his overwhelming sorrow. I've been praying for a miracle, and as I pray I tell God that I want it not so much for me as for Daddy. I'm not scared of death anymore but… I'm going to miss him.