My husband hated how often I visited my dying father. Then one Saturday, Dad asked to speak to him alone. Minutes later, my husband stormed out, demanding we leave. He claimed Dad was losing his mind. But a phone call the next day revealed something I never expected.
“You were at your dad’s yesterday,” my husband, Eric, said as I grabbed my keys. “Can’t you take one evening off?”
I checked the clock. “I’ll be back before eight.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I was back at eight fifteen.”
Eric gave me the look he’d started using whenever my father came up. Not angry, exactly. More like I’d forgotten an appointment only he remembered.
“I miss having you home, Claire,” he said. “That’s all.”
Our daughter, Lucy, was doing homework at the kitchen table. Our son, Ben, was building a tower out of cereal boxes.
“Dad,” Lucy said, “Grandpa promised to show me his old camera the next time I see him.”
Eric rubbed his forehead. “Of course he did.”
Dad was seventy-three. Four months earlier, doctors had told us his lung cancer could no longer be cured. Mom had died six years earlier, and Dad insisted on staying in the house they’d shared, with a hospice nurse visiting regularly.
I stopped by most evenings after work, bringing groceries, checking his medications, and making sure he’d eaten. He hated being fussed over. I went anyway.
At first, Eric had understood. Lately, every visit seemed to bother him.
On Thursday, I found a note in Lucy’s backpack. Grandparents Day was three weeks away, and she wanted Dad there.
“Do you think Grandpa can make it?” she asked.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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