Even on his worst days, he sat on the living room floor building Lego sets with the kids.
He’d pause to catch his breath, but he wouldn’t let them see it.
“I’m scared, Claire.”
I admired, trusted, and believed in him, thinking I knew him completely.
Three weeks before I found the box, he died in our bedroom at 2 a.m., despite fighting as hard as we could. The house had been silent except for the oxygen machine humming beside the bed.
I pressed my forehead against his and whispered, “You can’t leave me.”
He’d managed a faint smile. “You’ll be okay. You’re stronger than you think.”
I didn’t feel strong then because it felt like the ground had disappeared beneath my feet.
“You can’t leave me.”
After the funeral, I tried to keep everything normal for the kids. I packed lunches, signed school forms, and forced myself to smile when I needed to.
At night, when everyone else was asleep, I walked through the house and touched Daniel’s things. But one thing bothered me. During his illness, Daniel had become strangely protective of certain spaces in the house.
He insisted on reorganizing the attic himself, although he could barely lift boxes.
At the time, I thought it was pride and his desire not to feel useless.
