My Uncle Raised Me After My Parents Died – Until His Death Revealed the Truth He’d Hidden for Years
Between her nagging and my begging, he went.
After the tests, he sat at the kitchen table, papers under his hand.
“Stage four. It’s everywhere.”
“What did they say?” I asked.
He stared past me. “Stage four. It’s everywhere.”
“How long?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “They said numbers. I stopped listening.”
He tried to keep things the same.
He still made my eggs, even when his hand shook. He still brushed my hair, though sometimes he had to stop and lean on the dresser, breathing hard.
Hospice came.
At night, I heard him retching in the bathroom, then running the faucet.
Hospice came.
A nurse named Jamie set up a bed in the living room. Machines hummed. Medication charts went on the fridge.
The night before he died, he told everyone to leave.
“Even me?” Jamie asked.
“You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Even you.”
He shuffled into my room and eased into the chair by my bed.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, already crying.
He took my hand. “You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, right?”
“That’s kind of sad,” I joked weakly.
“You’re gonna live.”
He huffed a laugh. “Still true.”
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