“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He touched fabric.
“Your mother…”
“Yes.”
“She took it out.”
“Yes.”
“I came home.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Maya.
“You cried.”
“Yes.”
“I was angry.”
“Yes.”
“Did we go?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Maya laughed through tears.
“You really committed to that decision.”
Marcus closed eyes.
“Everyone or no one.”
There.
Still.
Maya rested head on bed.
“Dad.”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
“For canceling Hawaii?”
“Yes.”
He laughed weakly.
“Strange child.”
“Your fault.”
Marcus opened eyes.
“Did Camille know you forgave?”
Maya paused.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Did you?”
“Forgive her?”
“Yes.”
Marcus looked toward ceiling.
“I loved her.”
“That isn’t same.”
“No.”
He smiled faintly.
“But maybe enough.”
Maya nodded.
Sometimes at end of life, distinctions lose urgency.
Not because unimportant.
Because the person lived answer.
That evening Jordan and Eli arrived.
All three children around bed.
Marcus became more alert unexpectedly.
Hospice nurse warned rallies happen.
No one said.
Marcus looked at them.
“You three.”
Jordan smiled.
“Us.”
“Where’s your mother?”
Silence.
Maya answered gently.
“She died, Dad.”
Marcus closed eyes.
Then nodded.
“Right.”
His face crumpled.
For one heartbreaking minute he grieved Camille as if new.
The children held him.
Then the moment passed.
Marcus whispered:
“She was difficult.”
Eli laughed through tears.
“So are you.”
“Good.”
He looked at Jordan.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Teaching?”
“Retired.”
Marcus frowned.
“When?”
“Years.”
“Oh.”
Then Eli.
“Restaurant?”
“Sold.”
“Husband?”
“Peter’s home.”
“Good.”
Then Maya.
“Turtles?”
She smiled.
“Still there.”
Marcus smiled.
“Good.”
He looked at all three.
“Tickets?”
They stared.
Then Maya understood.
“All accounted for.”
Jordan laughed.
Eli wiped face.
“All five?”