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“I should have trusted you.”

“Yes. You should have.”

He reached for my hand.

“I can’t give you those years back.”

“No,” I whispered. “You can’t.”

I held his hand until he fell asleep.

That evening, the hospice nurse told us Daniel’s condition was worsening and encouraged us to spend whatever time we could with him.

I called Emma and Josh and told them to come back in the morning.

On Friday morning, exactly one week after Daniel called me from the hospital, I arrived at the hospice before breakfast.

Emma and Josh were already there.

Daniel was sleeping, his breathing slow and uneven.

The nurse explained that he was nearing the end of his life.

We pulled our chairs close to his bed.

Emma held his left hand while Josh sat beside her.

I sat on Daniel’s right.

For a while, nobody spoke.

Then Josh took out his phone and played one of the old jazz songs Daniel used to listen to on Sunday mornings.

Daniel opened his eyes briefly.

“Remember the pancakes, Dad?” Emma whispered.

A faint smile crossed his face.

“You always wanted chocolate chips.”

Emma laughed through her tears.

“Every Sunday.”

Daniel looked toward me.

“Claire?”

“I’m here.”

His voice was barely audible.

“Will you stay?”

I leaned closer and took his hand.

“Yes, Daniel.”

“Even after everything?”

“Even after everything.”

He squeezed my fingers weakly.

“Thank you.”

I brushed the hair away from his forehead.

“You can rest now. We’re all here.”

His eyes slowly closed.

We sat beside him as the music played quietly.

After a while, his breathing became slower, with longer pauses between breaths.

Then he took one final breath.

I waited, still holding his hand.

The nurse came forward, checked him, and gently confirmed that he had passed away.

Emma began sobbing against Josh’s shoulder.

I leaned over Daniel and kissed his forehead.

“Goodbye,” I whispered.

Then I pulled the blanket gently over his hand and stayed beside him while our children cried.

We buried Daniel four days later.

Emma and Josh stood beside me as his coffin was lowered into the ground.

I hadn’t expected to cry as much as I did, but when Josh placed a photograph of the four of us beside the flowers, I couldn’t hold back my tears.

After the funeral, we returned to my house.

For the first time in five years, the three of us talked about Daniel without anger.

We remembered his terrible jokes, his Sunday pancakes, and how he always sang off-key in the car.

That evening, after the children left, I placed our old family photograph on the mantel.

I stood looking at it for a long time.

Then I whispered, “I wish you’d told me, Daniel.”

Do you think the narrator was right to remain angry with Daniel after learning about his illness, or should his circumstances have changed how she viewed his betrayal?

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