“What’s in your jacket?”
“Nothing.”
“Those are papers.”
“Claire.”
“And you were on your laptop at two this morning.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Please don’t interrogate the dying man.”
“I hate that joke.”
“I know.”
“Whatever you’re doing, you can tell me.”
“I wish I could.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked down at the papers.
“You already have enough to carry.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“It should be sometimes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if someone needed help tomorrow, you’d forget to ask whether you could afford to give it.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It scares me.”
“Why?”
“Because you never know when to let someone else be the problem.”
I thought he deserved one corner of his life where cancer—and I—weren’t watching him.
That decision became the first thing I regretted after he died.
Five weeks later, he got much worse.
