I left the bank in a daze. Nothing around me felt real. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Memories replayed in my mind—the quiet evenings, the distant look in his eyes, the way he avoided mine toward the end. Things I had misunderstood. Things I had ignored.
By morning, I knew I needed answers.
I traveled to a small town in western Pennsylvania, where his sister, Margaret Hayes, lived. When she opened the door and saw me, her face crumpled.
“I was wondering when you’d come,” she said softly.
“Where is Daniel?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I need to talk to him.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped aside and returned with a small wooden box.
“He passed away,” she said quietly. “Five years ago.”
The words hit me like a blow. “No… that can’t be. We just divorced five years ago.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes.
“He was already sick. Terminal cancer. He knew there was no cure.”
The room spun. I gripped the edge of a chair.
“He didn’t want you to watch him die,” she continued. “He didn’t want your last memories to be hospitals and pain. Leaving you… that was the hardest thing he ever did.”
She placed the box in my hands. Inside was a letter. His handwriting.
My fingers shook as I opened it.