On a chilly, fall day in busy New York City, my phone buzzed in my pocket as I was rushing to my first ever call back. The call back was for the Broadway show Funny Girl. Dreaming of this moment my whole life, I was now going to audition for Franny Brice. I pushed through the backstage doors, walked onto the stage, and waited patiently for my name to be announced. “Madi Rose,” my name was finally called, and the image of my parents flashed through my head. Memories of them telling me that I’m not good enough, I’ll never make it, that there is no time for dreams, to find a real profession, and that I won’t survive in New York, all washed away as the bright lights beamed on my face. Here I was on a Broadway stage, ready to perform for myself and all the hard work I’ve accomplished. I looked out onto the empty theater, three judges waiting as I cleared my throat and said, “Hi my name is Madi Rose and today I will be performing Don’t Rain on My Parade by Barbra Streisand.” I took a deep breath and began to sing the song that I’ve known since I was a little girl. 

The lights went black as I walked off the stage feeling confident in my performance. Slowly grabbing my things, I picked up my phone and saw that I missed a call from my mother. The sight of that notification made me almost jump knowing she called either to complain about me or there was an emergency. I slightly hoped that she may have called to apologize for all the horrible things she and my father had said to me over the years that I spent with them. As I walked out of the building I called back my mother, hoping for the best. The phone rang three times before my mother finally picked up, and she answered with a hesitant voice. My phone slipped through my hands as my mother broke the news to me. She told me that my father was diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer. The doctors told my mother that he has a week to live. Tears streamed down my face as I rushed back to my little apartment in downtown New York City. The taxi drive, the walk to my apartment door, packing, and

booking a flight back to 

my hometown in Pella, Iowa was all a blur. All I could think about was my father and how I abandoned him and my family. The guilt rushed through my body as I reached my bed and slipped into the warm sheets. I remembered all the arguments and bickering we did over my childhood. I remembered ignoring all of his calls. I remembered all the laughs and good memories we had together. I looked back on it all, and I realized all the grudges I held against my father and family were meaningless. It finally hit me that time is so short and precious, and you’ll never know if someone will be around the next day. 

The next morning it was gloomy outside, and the world moved a little bit slower as I boarded my plane. I took my seat feeling nauseous as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I finally got comfortable and blocked out all of my thoughts as I fell fast asleep. The next thing I know the plane is landing, and I am in Pella, Iowa. I grab a rental car and head to the Pella Community Hospital where I meet my younger brother, Paul, at the front entrance. I haven’t seen Paul in over a year, and now he is a senior graduating high school. I lost all contact with my parents but not Paul. We grew up together as best friends and he always supported my dreams. Paul still texts and calls me weekly asking about NYC, my auditions, and how I’m doing, hoping I would come home and visit him. Paul never mentioned much about our parents because he knew that topic was touchy. Paul and I walked into the hospital and headed to my father’s room. Before walking into the room, I took a deep breath and told myself that now was the time to make things right. Slowly dragging my head as I walked into the room, I looked up and saw my father who was weak and frail. His face was hollow, with the sheets revealing his thin body, and his head naked. One glance is all it took to make my eyes fill with tears. I hugged my father gently, and he whispered my name now knowing I was there. I pulled back from my father as I prepared myself to apologize, but I was stopped abruptly. My father started to speak, as he searched for any amount of strength he could muster and started to apologize. I didn’t quite know what to do because my father never apologized for anything. He started off by telling me he was sorry for all the rough times between us, for the constant arguments, for tearing me down when he should’ve been lifting me up, and lastly, he was sorry for not being the father I needed most. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room, and the tears did not stop flowing. Speechless, I hugged my father once again, tighter and longer than the first, knowing that’s all we needed.