He tried to keep things normal.
He still made my eggs in the morning, even when his hands shook. He still brushed my hair, though sometimes he had to lean against the dresser to catch his breath.
Eventually hospice came.
A nurse named Laura set up a hospital bed in the living room. Machines hummed. Medication charts covered the fridge.
The night before he died, he asked everyone to leave.
“Even me?” Laura asked.
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Even you.”
He came into my room and sat in the chair beside my bed.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“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.
He chuckled softly. “Still true.”
“I don’t know what to do without you,” I whispered.
His eyes filled with tears.
“You’re gonna live,” he said firmly. “You hear me? You’re gonna live.”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too,” he admitted.
He looked like he wanted to say something else but only shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For things I should’ve told you.”
Then he kissed my forehead.
“Get some sleep, Emily.”
He died the next morning.
The funeral was a blur of black clothes, weak coffee, and people saying, “He was a good man.”