Machines hummed.
Medication charts went on the refrigerator.
At night, I heard him getting sick in the bathroom, then turning on the faucet so I wouldn’t hear.
The night before he died, he told everyone to leave.
Even Jamie.
Then he slowly made his way into my room and lowered himself into the chair beside my bed.
“Hey, kid,” he said.
“Hey,” I answered, already crying.
He reached for my hand.
“You know you were the best thing that ever happened to me, right?”
“That’s kind of sad,” I joked weakly.
He laughed, but it broke halfway through.
“Still true.”
“I don’t know what to do without you,” I whispered.
His eyes filled with tears.
“You’re going to live,” he said. “You hear me? You’re going to live.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” he said. “Me too.”
Then his face changed.
Like there was something sitting behind his eyes.
Something heavy.
Something old.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?”
His hand tightened around mine.
“For things your uncle should have told you a long time ago.”
My chest went cold.
“What things?”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to answer.
But he only shook his head.
Then he leaned forward and kissed my forehead.
“Goodnight, Emily.”
He died the next morning.
The memorial service was black clothes, bad coffee, and people saying, “He was a good man,” like that could possibly explain what losing him felt like.
When I came home, the house felt wrong.
His boots were still by the door.
His mug was still in the sink.
The basil hung in the window, untouched.
That afternoon, Mrs. Patel knocked once and came inside.
Her eyes were red.
Her hands were shaking.
She sat on the edge of my bed and placed an envelope in my lap.
“Your uncle asked me to give you this,” she said.
I stared at it.
My name was written across the front in Nathan’s rough handwriting.
Emily.
“And he asked me to tell you he was sorry,” Mrs. Patel continued.
My throat tightened.
“Sorry for what?”
She looked away.
“And that… I’m sorry too.”
My blood went cold.
“Mrs. Patel, what does that mean?”
She shook her head, tears sliding down her face.
