I sat beside his bed every day, holding his hand while the machines hummed softly. Sometimes he would squeeze my fingers and whisper small things.
“You’re stronger than you think.”
I would nod because I couldn’t trust my voice.
Linda sent one text during that week.
“Keep me posted.”
Grandpa passed away on a Tuesday morning just after five.
I was holding his hand when it happened.
Linda arrived that same afternoon.
I heard her car before I saw her.
Gravel crunching under expensive tires.
She stepped out of a shiny black Mercedes wearing oversized sunglasses and a white blazer like she was headed to lunch, not her father’s home.
She didn’t hug me.
She didn’t ask about the kids.
Instead, she slowly looked around the property.
“Wow,” she said. “This place feels smaller than I remember.”
For the next three days before the funeral, she walked through the farmhouse like an inspector.
Opening cabinets. Tapping walls. Taking notes on her phone.
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