Kevin Gray’s mother was dying from a kind of cancer that squeezed your organs so tight you could hardly breathe. Her body was a crowded house of infection, flashing no vacancy signs, and Kevin’s father told him, in between conference calls with Asia, there’s no time. Doctors attempted an experimental surgery where they vacuumed Kevin’s mother’s insides and torched them for a week with radiation in hopes the chemicals would wedge themselves into places where a man’s hands couldn’t go. Kevin’s father’s assistant completed insurance forms over hold music. Kevin’s father pointed to his phone and said I have to take this. Kevin’s father mouthed to the receptionist, put it on the card, doll. Pacing the length of the hospital corridor, Kevin’s father looked at everyone but his son when he said, I don’t have it in me to be her wet nurse. I need you to step up to the plate. Kevin lit a cigarette, was told there’s no smoking in here, and tried to remember the last time he and his father played baseball.
Alice Comes Undone
Felicia C. Sullivan

Curious, as a novice writer, had you meant to use Kevin’s Father so much here? If so, was it to try to drive home a point about him?

Thank you =)

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.