The remote control feels heavy in my hand. I drop it onto the blanket and close my eyes. TV does not hold much appeal for me anymore these days.

I hear the door open but cannot bring myself to care.

Then I realise something is different. The door doesn't close again. There is no cheerful, "Dinner for you, Mr Walker." In fact, there is no noise at all.

I open my eyes and turn my head towards the door. A young woman is standing on the threshold, her fingers still clutching the door handle.

She's obviously got the wrong room. I want to turn my head away. Let her find her own way out. But then I see it. Fear, written all over her face.

My heart melts a little. It's not her fault that I'm dying.

"We've exhausted all forms of therapy, Mr Walker. I'm sorry. All we can do now, is try to make you as comfortable as possible," the doctor had explained. And they are doing their best. But the pain is intense despite the drug cocktail being pumped into my bloodstream constantly. But I have made my peace with it. There are regrets, of course. But it is time. The cancer has eaten most of my body.

"Can I help you?" I ask with the same cheerfulness provided to me by the doctors and nurses here.

"Mr Walker?" Her voice is trembling.

I nod.

She takes a small step towards me.

"I'm sorry to disturb you. Are you in any pain?"

I don't feel much like discussing the agony I'm in with a perfect stranger so I shake my head.

"I'm okay. Thanks for asking. Mind if I ask who you are and why you are here?"

"Sorry," she says, fiddling with her handbag. Finally, she pulls an object out of her bag. A very familiar object.

My breath hitches, and a pain so intense that I feel like my heart is being ripped straight from my body hits me. Despite everything I've been through these last few months, I have never felt anything like this.

I struggle to sit up, my eyes watering.

"I'm Lucy," she says simply, squeezing the notebook that I had sent her just last week. Milestones is scribbled on the cover in my own uneven handwriting.

"Lucy!" I barely manage a whisper.

"Dad," she answers. Dad! Nobody has ever said this word to me before, not even Lucy. 19 years ago, a few weeks after her birth, Lucy and her mother left. Destination unknown.

In my desperation, I had searched the net for all the milestones in a child's development. Every time Lucy hit such a marker, I'd sit down and write down my thoughts. What I imagined she'd be doing, how she'd be coping, how proud she'd be. But Lucy never read any of it because by the time I found her again, she had refused all contact with me.

There is only one lonely milestone in the book that I actually witnessed. One actual photo. Lucy's first smile. The prettiest thing I've ever seen.

Lucy's rushing towards me now.

"I didn't know, Dad," she sobs. "She always told me that you didn't want me, that you were worthless. I am so sorry, Dad. All the time we've lost!"

"It's okay, Lucy."

As her arms go around my frail body, I smile. The second milestone that I am actually present for. Our first hug.