After a decade, the liver is a tired river that cannot flow, yaar—portal hypertension then builds pressure until it finds new, fragile paths to burst through. We learned to fear variceal bleeds more than the cirrhosis itself. What textbooks don’t tell you is that you don’t get ten clear years; you get moments—my father’s eyes turning yellow last monsoon, the swollen ankles that kept him from our terrace. My life says the question looks for a medical timeline, but the real ending is in the countless paracetamol syrups I hid so his battered liver wouldn’t see another pill.
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