Back home, our two children clung to their father while he pretended everything was fine.
I pretended too.
But some nights, I caught him staring at the ceiling, his eyes glassy with something heavier than pain.
He pretended everything was fine.
“What is it, David?” I asked one evening, curling against his thin shoulder. “Talk to me.”
“I’m just tired, my love.”
“You’re keeping something from me. I can feel it.”
He turned his face toward the wall.
“Please. Just let me hold you tonight.”
Three weeks into hospice care, he asked me something shocking.
“You’re keeping something from me. I can feel it.”
He reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a photograph, worn soft at the corners.
A solemn sixteen-year-old girl stared back at me, her dark eyes far too old for her face.
“Her name is Grace,” David said quietly. “I need you to adopt her before I die.”
My whole body went cold.
“David, what are you saying? Who is this girl?”
“Please. Just trust me.”
