Title: The Road to Copper Harbor Genre: Drama / Slice of Life

Copper Harbor (Drama, Based on True Events)

Part I

— Dad, I have a surprise for you.

— What kind of surprise, sweetheart? You know I love surprises.

— You'll find out tomorrow. Just be ready for a long trip.

— Honey, you can't do this to me! How am I supposed to sleep tonight? What time do I need to be ready? When are you coming?

— Be ready by 6:00 AM. I asked Aunt Sarah to help you get packed for the road.

— But we were just hanging out, and she didn't say a word!

— That’s enough, Daddy. See you tomorrow. I’ll be there at six.

I hung up the phone, and the tears started flowing like a river. Logically, I knew he had a month left, maybe two at most. He could barely speak, barely move. The glioblastoma was progressing every day. The doctors had thrown up their hands; money no longer mattered. The verdict was unanimous: one month, two, maybe three.

I didn't grow up rich. I lost my mom when I was ten. Back then, Dad went from a cheerful, tall, handsome man to a weary shadow of himself. He worked fifteen-hour shifts just so I wouldn't need anything. But every Sunday, he was home, dedicating every minute to me. We went to amusement parks, museums, concerts, and our favorite place—the Planetarium. We found a star there and named it after Mom: "The Margaret Star." For us, it was always shining.

Those Sundays weren't in vain. I got into a good university and majored in Archaeology. While I was studying, Dad sent me every cent he earned. He still drove up on Sundays so we could go to diners, movies, or just walk in the park. He did everything for me. But he had a dream: to visit Copper Harbor, way up on the Keweenaw Peninsula. It’s an old mining town, practically the end of the earth, closed off by heavy snows half the year. I don’t know why it fascinated him so much—he’d only been there once—but he knew everything about it.

And here I am—an adult, independent, self-sufficient woman. I became who I am thanks to him. But I can't forgive myself. I could have arranged this trip years ago, before the sickness. But "busy schedules" and work always got in the way. God, how I suffer now because of my own selfishness. I was so used to him thinking about me that I never stopped to think it was time for me to take care of him. It’s so heavy.

Two years ago, we found out about the brain tumor. Two years of treatments, chances, and hope. But nothing worked—not the clinics here, not the experimental trials abroad. A few weeks ago, the doctors gave the final answer: the disease is terminal. The only thing left is pain management. I lost all hope and energy. So, I took a leave of absence. I decided that for these final days, I have to be there. I rented an RV, and we are going to Copper Harbor. Better late than never.

Of course, Dad is putting on a brave face, even scolding me for taking time off work. But I know he needs me. And more importantly, I need him. I did everything wrong in life. I wanted to get on my feet, be independent, and only then start a family. And now? So what if I'm independent? Dad could have been holding grandchildren right now. God, I feel so guilty. I grew up too fast. Now, as I pack my bags, I can’t stop crying, my whole life flashing before my eyes.

Part II

The next morning, I arrived at Dad’s place. He was ready at the appointed time. I walked up to him and was hit by the scent of my childhood—I’ll never forget his cologne. His face was clean-shaven (as Aunt Sarah says, "Your father only shaves when the Queen is visiting," meaning me). I hugged him and burst into tears again. I saw Dad start to object, to show a little frustration, but instead, he hugged me back and whispered:

— I don't want to see your tears. I protected you your whole life so you wouldn't cry. Please, your tears hurt more than the sickness. From today on, only smiles.

— Okay, Dad. You're right.

— So, what is this surprise? You still haven't told me where we're going or for how long. Come on, spill it. I'm tired of guessing.

— Dad, it’s okay. See that RV in the driveway? It’s ours for two weeks. That’s part of the surprise. The other part you’ll find out in about eight hours.

— Eight hours? Emily, when I was a kid, I couldn't keep a surprise for five minutes! You used to make those puppy eyes, and I’d cave instantly. Make an exception today. I can't wait eight hours!

I looked at Dad, and the memories washed over me. Late spring, the end of the school year. I was twelve, running home from school as fast as I could because Dad had said there was an "incredible surprise" waiting. I fell so hard on the pavement that I tore my tights; my knees were a bloody mess, elbows scraped raw. But I didn't care. I kept running. When I got to the apartment door, I froze in horror. The key wasn't in my pocket. I must have dropped it when I fell. Dad wouldn't be home until late. Bloodied and bruised, I ran all the way back to find the key. Miraculously, I found it in the grass. I walked back home, barely dragging my feet, looking like a stray cat after a fight. But I opened the door. The house was quiet. Dinner was on the table covered in foil. I ran to my room, and my eyes went straight to my desk. With dirty, bloody hands, I grabbed a large envelope. I tore it open. Two tickets to the circus—the big touring show from New York! It was my dream. Inside that envelope was another one: tickets to The Nutcracker ballet. I hugged those tickets to my chest, dirt and all, and collapsed on the bed in pure bliss.

— Emily? You zoned out on me.

Dad’s voice woke me up. I hugged him, and we slowly walked toward the vehicle. Aunt Sarah was bustling around with bags of clothes and coolers of food, explaining where everything was. Ah, Aunt Sarah—my mom’s sister. She’s had a hard life. Years ago, she was a long-haul trucker. One day, she was arrested at a weigh station; they found contraband in her trailer. It wasn't hers—someone had used her truck as a mule without her knowing. But the prosecutors needed a conviction. Dad later explained to me how corrupt the plea bargain system could be. Sarah spent ten years in federal prison. When she got out, Mom was already gone. Sarah had nowhere to go, so Dad took her in. She’s lived with him ever since, his rock.

— Aunt Sarah, are you sure you don't want to come? It’s not too late. What will you do here alone? Come on, you need a vacation. — Ha! Trust me, kid, I’ve done enough 'traveling' from cell block A to B to last two lifetimes. I don't go further than the supermarket these days. And even then, I get nervous if the bus driver looks like a guard. — Oh, Sarah, always with the dark humor.

We laughed, said our goodbyes, and I climbed into the driver's seat. For most of the drive, Dad and I were silent, lost in thought. I wondered if I was doing the right thing, dragging him across the state in his condition without asking his doctors. But I pushed those thoughts away. I believed in this trip.

I glanced at Dad. He was staring at the highway, then turned and smiled.

— You know, not so long ago—maybe ten years—I was driving you like this. Remember how we sang our favorite songs and argued about which one was the best?

We started reminiscing about when I left for college. Dad didn't trust the big city, so he stayed at a motel down the road from my dorm for the first month, just "looking for work," he claimed. In reality, he was watching over me. He even charmed the dorm security guard into letting him fix my window and paint my walls. Every morning, he’d drop off Tupperware containers of homemade food in the common kitchen, labeling everything.

— Dad, I just remembered the 'Great Beefsteak Incident' from freshman year. — Oh, do you remember? I forgot I was in a dorm. I left the food in the common fridge. When you got back from class, the containers were empty. — I'll never forget it. You sent me a photo of two beautiful steaks and a salad. I sent you angry emojis because when I opened the fridge, there was nothing! I had to explain that students are essentially hungry vultures. If food is left unguarded for three minutes, it vanishes.

We fell silent again, letting the memories settle. The radio played softly. Sometimes Dad hummed along; I just smiled, fighting back tears, pretending everything was perfect.

Two hours later, we pulled into a roadside diner. Dad needed his meds and an injection. The place was empty. A young waitress with purple hair was practically lying across the counter, craning her neck to watch a TV mounted too high on the wall. She didn't even look at us.

— Kitchen's closed, — she drawled lazily. — Coffee and hot drinks only. If you want food, we got stale muffins. — One coffee and two bottles of water, please. — Wait five minutes. Gotta turn the machine back on.

Dad looked at this purple-haired vision of customer service and said he’d wait in the RV. Ten minutes later, I got the coffee. One sip told me why the place was empty. I tossed it in the trash bin outside. We had just wasted twenty minutes for nothing. I got back in the driver's seat, and we moved on.

to be continued......