Even on his worst days, he sat on the living room floor building Lego sets. He would pause to catch his breath but never let the children see. He insisted on reading bedtime stories, even when his voice cracked halfway through.
Three weeks ago, at 2 a.m., he died in our bedroom despite everything we tried.
The oxygen machine hummed softly beside the bed. I pressed my forehead to his and whispered, “You can’t leave me.”
He managed a faint smile. “You’ll be okay. You’re stronger than you think.”
I didn’t feel strong. It felt as though the ground had vanished beneath me.
After the funeral, people filled the house with casseroles and sympathy. Eventually they left, but the grief remained.
I tried to keep things normal. I packed lunches, signed school forms, and forced smiles when necessary. At night, when the children slept, I wandered through the house touching Daniel’s things.
But something unsettled me.
During his illness, Daniel had grown oddly protective of certain areas of the house. He insisted on reorganizing the attic himself, even when he barely had the strength to lift boxes. At the time, I thought it was pride—his refusal to feel useless.
Now, in the silence, those moments felt different.
