Outside the cafe, Bangalore was dissolving in the rain. Through the smeared glass windows, nothing was quite clear. The overhead fan was spinning at its limit. I was still sweating. Years in the Seattle cold had made me a stranger to this air. I knew this place very well. Looking at the brown smudge on the glass I knew it was my mother’s apartment. The neighboring white shape was the hospital. I had spent seven weeks at this very hospital while my dad battled for his life. A battle he fought, but we all lost. I turned away from the window and knew who I would see across from me. The person I had been avoiding for nine years. I had named him 'the martyr' in my journal, a title born of a lifetime bowing to societal expectations. His drooping shoulders carried the weight of several sleepless weeks. He was looking at the hospital. I saw his jaw clench as he turned his gaze towards me. I felt a lump of guilt in my throat and dropped my eyes to my open journal on the table. “Nine yea...