The rhythmic beeping of the dialysis machine had become a familiar soundtrack to my life. Three times a week, it marked the hours my dad spent tethered to a chair, his body cleansed by a machine doing what his kidneys could not. It wasn’t always this way.

In 2003, we had hope. I was just a kid then, but I remember the excitement in our home. Dad had flown to India for a kidney transplant. It was supposed to be a new chapter for us—a chance for him to live without the weight of illness constantly looming. I remember the first time he came home after the surgery, his face lit with the kind of joy I hadn’t seen in years. For a little while, it seemed like a miracle.

But miracles can be fleeting. The rejection came slowly at first, creeping in like a shadow until there was no denying it. The transplant failed. I didn’t fully understand what that meant back then, but I knew it hurt him more than he let on. He tried to stay strong, for me, for our family, but I could see the sadness in his eyes—the loss of the future he’d dared to dream about.

Now, over a decade later, the dialysis routine has become normal, though it never feels that way. Three days a week, we make the drive, and I sit in the waiting room or try to catch up on schoolwork. I’m supposed to be finishing high school this year, but the weight of it all sometimes feels unbearable.

Balancing classes and assignments while worrying about him is exhausting. There are nights I stay up late, staring at textbooks I can barely focus on because my mind keeps wandering back to Dad—wondering if his body can keep enduring this, wondering if he’s in pain but hiding it from me.

He tries to reassure me. "You need to focus on your future," he always says, his voice steady despite the weariness in his eyes. But it’s hard to think about my future when his feels so uncertain.

Some days, I feel angry—angry at the unfairness of it all, at the transplant that failed, at the constant struggle we’ve been forced to face. Other days, I feel guilty for even thinking that way. Dad has given so much, fought so hard. The least I can do is fight too, even when it feels impossible.

This isn’t the life any of us planned, but it’s the one we’ve been given. And as hard as it is, there’s love here. Every ride to dialysis, every conversation in the waiting room, every meal we share afterward—it’s all a reminder that we’re still here, still fighting.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it through school without breaking under the pressure. But I do know one thing: if my dad can keep fighting, then so can I. We need funds to cover our daily expenses, bills and food.

For him. For us. For the hope that someday, things will get better.