Standing over the sink, Isobel Morgan frowned down at the list on her phone, her fingers flying over the touch screen as she typed out notes.

The wedding was still three months away and though she'd gone to considerable lengths to keep everything fairly simple, even with the hired coordinator and a ruthlessly planned checklist to keep on schedule, there was still so much left to do.

Seating plan revisions – 5.0, remember to email Kyle's additions to Nina.

Confirm dress fitting.

Cake Tasting on Tuesday at 4pm. Confirm attendance with Kyle and Nina.

Call Sisters re: vintage BM dresses – final measurements and colour preferences.

And call Priya, she added quickly, smiling in memory over the interesting exchange she'd woken up to. God, it had been so long since she'd made a trip down to New York to visit. Even though she lived the closest of all her Sisters, they'd both been far busier in the last few months than Isobel cared to think about.

School was officially over. They'd crossed the finish-line—signifying an end to the gruelling marathon only to discover they'd been thrust immediately into another without a moment to catch their breaths. This one longer and seemingly endless, with more obstacles, higher hurdles called life and responsibility. Where the training wheels were cast off and you were expected to stand on your own two feet, though, Isobel supposed she'd cast hers off years ago and without much choice after the accident.

Some mornings she found herself waking up and longing for the simpler days of essays and exams...

"There's my best girl."

Isobel turned at the sound of her father's voice as Angus Morgan toddled into the kitchen, his glowing smile marred by the shadow of a grimace. Deep grooves of chronic pain slashed between his brows, furrowed around his mouth. Aging him well beyond his stout forty-seven years. Robbing him of vitality.

They'd been faint at first—two years ago after he'd plummeted near thirty feet in the faulty scaffolding accident, but with the passing days and countless surgeries, she watched them sink deeper. She hated that there was nothing she could do to stop the erosion. A hopeless sense of impotency.

So Isobel made a concerted effort to be his constant source of joy. Of happiness and hope where he had always endeavoured to be hers.

"Morning, Da," she said, setting down her phone to pluck up her steaming cup of steeped green tea, sweetened with a hint of agave syrup. A healthy sugar the body could metabolise without the crashes or calories. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like the dead," he barked a dry laugh and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It was always the same answer. It was always the same lie. She knew he slept poorly. She saw it in the weary bend of his back and the heaviness of his steps. Even with the painkillers and prescribed meds, her father hadn't had a good night's sleep in almost three years.

"Where is you're off to so early on a Sunday?" She watched as he reached for the chair at the breakfast nook, a little half-moon shaped table with two mismatched wooden chairs they'd both sat at just about every morning as far back as she could remember. The task of dragging the chair out shouldn't have been a trying one, but for him it was.

Growing up he'd seemed invincible in her eyes. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested as a Superhero with his strong arms, rough hands and a big heart.

They'd become each other's whole world after she'd left them. Mom.

Isobel swallowed the knot of betrayal and fear. She would not think of her mother, not now and certainly not in front of him. It was too beautiful a day for her to be sad, and like a bloodhound, her father would sniff out the cause. She didn't want to upset him, either.

"I have to meet the coordinator for brunch," she said, brightening her voice with the expected eager anticipation of a young bride-to-be.

Angus nodded gruffly as he sank into the chair, barely masking a wince as his weight settled into the uncompromising wooden frame. Sipping her tea, Isobel's gaze shifted to the living room—to the plush couch or the beat up leather recliner they used to cuddle in together and watch soccer—and wondered how she was going to steer him there without bruising his ego.

Maybe if she'd turned on the TV to the morning news. Laid out a Sudoku puzzle...

At this wheezing grunt, her attention flitted back to see him hunched over and struggling to tie up the laces on his left shoe.

"Here." Setting her cup on the counter, she rushed to his side and urged him to ease upright in the chair. He'd dressed himself this morning in pressed jeans and a plaid shirt, the buttons misaligned by two. Her fingers itched to redo them, to smooth out those creases around his shoulders, but instead she busied herself with the task of his laces. "Why didn't you call me to help you this morning?"

"Ach." He swiped her question aside with a calloused palm. "I can manage well enough on me own. No need to fret over it."Angus Morgan had always been a proud man and still was. He'd sooner yank out his own eye teeth rather than ask for help.

She clipped his nails, combed his hair, and on the really bad days she helped him climb in and out of bed or shimmy into his jeans. Every day the list of things she did for her father grew and grew, shrinking his independence. Smothering him.

Last fall she'd hired a contractor to modify a few areas around the home—installing a second handrail at the stairs, a bar in the shower and around the toilet so he could heft himself about as he needed or hold on to when he felt faint. Though the cost had been a hit she hadn't budgeted, knowing it let him hold on to that much more of his dignity had been well worth the expense.

Finished with his laces, Isobel rocked back on her heels and gazed up at him. "Can I make you something to eat before I go?"

"I'm fine, love."

"Da, you need to eat."

"Why must you always make a fuss?" He smirked, the creases deepening around his eyes. "You know according to the Irish, in life there are only two things to worry about. Either you're well or you're sick. If you're well," he waved a hand, "there's nothin' to worry about, but if you're sick it all comes down to either you'll get well or you'll die."

"Da..."

"And if you die," he continued, smile growing, "all you have to worry about is either you'll go to Heaven or Hell. And if you go to Hell, well, then there's nothin' left to worry about as you'll be too busy shakin' hands with all your friends to fuss."

Despite herself, Isobel smiled as she knew he'd hoped she would. "Don't let Father Roy hear you talk like that."

His slate blue eyes winked deviously. "Who'd you think taught it to me?"

Now she did laugh. "God help us all," she muttered lovingly, and rose to stand, hands on her hips. "Alright, well I shouldn't be gone for more than a few hours."

"A girl like you should be out enjoyin' herself, not rushing home to slave over a body."

Isobel stooped to kiss his cheek with a noisy smack of her lips. "It's not a fuss to take care of someone you love. Besides, it's a gorgeous day out. Maybe we could stretch your legs for a bit at the park. Dr. Gora says you need to get out and walk more. Strengthen your muscles with gentle exercises the physiotherapist taught you so we can start doing Yoga."

Angus scrunched up his nose. "I hate walkin'."

"We'll make it short one," she promised gently but without backing down. Whether he liked it or not, she intended to follow the doctor's instructions to the letter. But wasn't above bribery, if and when necessary. "If you're good I'll take you to the pub for some Fish n' Chips."

That perked him up straight. "And a pint?"

Her lips twisted wryly. "I might be swayed if you do everything I ask you to without a grumble or a groan."

His features slid into a frown but a smile still shone in his eyes. "Where'd you learn to be so tough?"

Isobel pressed another noisy kiss to his cheek. "From my Da, of course." He barked a dry laugh as her phone vibrated with an incoming call from Nina, her coordinator.

"I've got to take this, Da. See you later," she said and excused herself to answer while slipping into her heeled boots. "Morning, Nina, I was just about to leave. I should get to the restaurant on time to—"

"Isobel," Nina interrupted, her voice strained. "Sweetie...have you checked your email?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

"I just sent something over. You're going to want to check it and I think its best we...reschedule."

"Why...has something come up?" A hard lump of worry clotted in Isobel's throat. Please don't be the venue. Or the caterer. Or my dress...

There were only so many available venues in the city during the summer that could meet her stringent needs for environmentally friendly perspective and Vegan lifestyle. And her dress! God, it was perfect. A vintage, 1950's gem acquired at a private auction last week. If anything had happened to it, she'd never find another one in time...

The line strained with silence. "You can say that. Check your email. Call me when you're ready."

Hands shaking, Isobel scrolled through her phone, flipping over from the call screen to where the icons splayed across the iPhone's dashboard. For a moment she gazed down at the screen, lowered carefully to the edges of the steps. A trembling thumb hovered over the inbox a second before she pressed down and there it was. The email from her coordinator.

Waiting for her. Received barely a minute ago with two small and altogether unassuming words but together...together they had the power to rattle her bones.

Brace Yourself  ...

**Author's Note**

I'd love to hear your thoughts about Isobel and her relationship with her father.

I had a mother who was sick when I was in university and take it from me, it's no picnic caring for an ailing parent. Watching them suffer. I think Isobel is certainly handling it with far more grace then I had at 19.

Whenever I write stories, while I do draw a lot of inspiration from people around me, I always like to write about relationships I wish I had and Isobel's connection to her father is something I would have killed for growing up.

And what do you think the coordinator's *GASP* email is all about???!