At 15, Cha Miñoza learned her dad was dying over lunch at Wendy’s. Her story, alongside practical guidance, explains why honesty matters and how to begin.
Originally published June 29, 2018 · Updated September 30, 2026
Cha’s personal account has been edited for clarity. The practical guidance and opening answer are additions from URevolution’s editorial team.
I was 15. The adults thought they were protecting me.
It was hard to talk about cancer, so we didn’t.
My mom and the other adults in my family tried to keep the seriousness of my dad’s illness from me. I knew he was sick. What nobody seemed ready to explain was that he wasn’t going to get better.
The day I found out started with shopping. My cousins Cat and Jo had taken me to SM Southmall, a few minutes from home. We bought things for the house, I got some new clothes, and we headed to Wendy’s for lunch.
Cat and Jo were like big sisters to me. Their mom was my mom’s sister, and their family had always been a warm part of my childhood. Summers were better with them around.
That morning, though, they were being especially nice. Underneath the shopping and girl chats, I could feel something else. People were always extra nice before bringing bad news.
“This is it,” I thought to myself. “This is the day they tell me my dad’s going to die.”
My dad had liver cancer, and it was spreading fast. Our quiet home had changed. Relatives came and went, taking care of adult things I didn’t quite understand. At 15, I was kept outside most of those conversations.
But I could see the hospital trips. I could hear the lowered voices. I noticed the closed doors.
I wanted my dad to get better. I didn’t particularly want to think about how. Still, by the time we sat down at Wendy’s, I was already preparing myself for the conversation everyone had been avoiding.
“So, how is this going to play out?” I wondered. “And why didn’t we get better seating?”
A booth would have been more private. Instead, we were near the entrance and the salad bar, surrounded by people happily filling their plates.
I thought I could handle it. A few questions about how I was doing. Some reassurance. It had been a good day. Surely I could get through lunch.
“Eight months,” she said.
Mid-meal, Cat turned towards me. She sighed, looking concerned.
“Eight months,” she said.
Two words. I understood what she meant.
The table went quiet. Or perhaps I stopped hearing it. This was how I learned my dad’s cancer was terminal: a number, delivered between bites of lunch.
I sank back in my chair. Tears were gathering in my eyes, and I tried to hide them by eating my burger.
“We really should have gotten booth seating,” I thought.
The truth hurt. I still needed to hear it.
I had sensed what was happening. Hearing it said aloud made it real.
I never found out whether Cat and Jo had planned to tell me that day. Had someone asked them to? I didn’t think so. It felt more like a conversation that happened because somebody finally said the thing.
It was abrupt. Embarrassing, too, in the middle of a restaurant. Yet I welcomed their honesty.
I think hearing it from my mom or dad would have been even more devastating. My cousins’ awkwardness was, somehow, comforting. At a time when everyone else was being so discreet, I needed someone to be direct.
Maybe that helped me find the courage to face what was happening.
For another perspective on living with a parent’s diagnosis: My dad has cancer: how do I cope?
Practical guidance · URevolution editorial team
What can you say when a parent is dying?
Cha’s story describes one teenager’s experience. It isn’t a script every family should follow.
Before speaking, ask the care team what is known about the illness and likely time ahead. Choose a private place and leave time afterwards. A trusted adult can join you or help lead the conversation if the parent is too unwell or overwhelmed. Macmillan’s preparation guide offers support with those decisions.
When doctors have explained that the illness will cause the parent’s death, these are words you could adapt:
“Dad’s cancer is getting worse. The doctors can’t make it go away. They think he is going to die from it. We don’t know exactly when. They are still helping to care for him, and we will keep telling you what we know.”
This is an example, not a quotation from Cha’s family. Use the person’s name and the facts the care team has explained. An incurable illness does not, by itself, mean death is imminent.
Then pause. Ask what the child understood or wants to know. A first conversation can be brief; they may return with questions later.
How do you explain dying to a younger child?
Use concrete language. Explain that death means a person’s body stops working and they cannot come back. Avoid describing death as sleep or a trip away, which can leave the child expecting a return. You can talk about your family’s beliefs while keeping that physical explanation clear.
If cancer is the illness, explain that they cannot catch it by being near their parent. Make room for the question they may be afraid to ask: did they cause this? Say clearly that their thoughts, words or behaviour did not make it happen. Marie Curie’s guide to children’s questions addresses these worries.
How do you tell a teenager their parent is dying?
Give them honest information and a say in how much detail they hear. A teenager may ask practical questions, go quiet or seem barely to react. That response does not tell you how much they care, or whether they are coping.
Keep offering opportunities to talk. If they search online, help them check whether what they find actually applies to their parent’s illness. Macmillan’s guidance for children and teenagers explains why continuing reassurance matters even when a young person wants independence.
What if they ask questions you cannot answer?
- “When will they die?”
- Share what the care team has said and explain the uncertainty. A prognosis is an estimate, not an appointment. Cha remembers being told “eight months”; the article does not establish how long her dad actually lived.
- “Who will look after me?”
- Explain the arrangements you know: who will be with them, collect them from school or help at home. If plans are unfinished, say which adults are working on them.
- “Can I see them?”
- Discuss it with the parent and care team. Prepare the child for changes they may notice, and give them a choice. A call, drawing or recorded message may be another way to connect.
Sources: Macmillan; Marie Curie on children’s questions; Marie Curie on supporting children during terminal illness.
What helps after the conversation?
Keep ordinary routines where you can, including friendships and activities. Make sure the child knows they can still enjoy themselves. Tell their school what is happening and discuss what support the child would find useful.
Offer ways to spend time with their parent without turning every visit into a goodbye. They may want to talk, sit together or send a message. Their preferences can change.
You can ask a hospice, social worker or the parent’s care team about support for children before the death. Marie Curie’s family guidance is a useful place to begin.
There may be another question tomorrow. Leave room for it.
