He stared past me. “Stage four. It’s everywhere.”
“How long?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “They said numbers. I stopped listening.”
He tried to keep things the same.
He still made my eggs, even when his hand shook. He still brushed my hair, though sometimes he had to stop and lean on the dresser, breathing hard.
Hospice came.
At night, I heard him retching in the bathroom, then running the faucet.
Hospice came.
A nurse named Jamie set up a bed in the living room. Machines hummed. Medication charts went on the fridge.
The night before he died, he told everyone to leave.
“Even me?” Jamie asked.
“You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Even you.”
He shuffled into my room and eased into the chair by my bed.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, already crying.
He took my hand. “You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, right?”
“That’s kind of sad,” I joked weakly.
“You’re gonna live.”
He huffed a laugh. “Still true.”
“I don’t know what to do without you,” I whispered.
His eyes went shiny. “You’re gonna live. You hear me? You’re gonna live.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” he said. “Me too.”
“For things I should’ve told you.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, then just shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For things I should’ve told you.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Get some sleep, Hannah.”
He died the following morning.
The funeral was black clothes, bad coffee, and people saying, “He was a good man,” like that covered everything.
“Your uncle asked me to give you this.”
Back at the house, it felt wrong.
Ray’s boots by the door. His mug in the sink. The basil drooping in the window.
That afternoon, Mrs. Patel knocked and came in. She sat on my bed, eyes red, and held out an envelope.
“Your uncle asked me to give you this,” she said. “And to tell you he’s sorry. And that… I am too.”
“Sorry for what?” I asked.
Several pages slid into my lap.
