Then came the hospital.
The birthday invitation arrived in an envelope from Saint Matthew’s Medical Center, and my stomach dropped.
I called immediately. Mrs. Hale answered, her voice sounding weaker. “Don’t worry.” Which, of course, made me worry.
When I arrived, the hospital room had streamers, cake, balloons, everything she’d always had, only smaller and quieter.
She sat propped up in bed, thinner than I remembered, but smiling. Always smiling.
“You’re late.”
I checked my watch. “I got here early.”
“Only slightly late then.”
I laughed. She laughed too. For a few hours, everything felt normal. Then evening came. Visitors left. The room grew quiet, and suddenly it was just us.
Mrs. Hale reached for my hand. “There is something I need to tell you.”
For years, I’d been waiting for those words.
“When your mother got sick, she was terrified.”
My chest tightened. “Of what?”
“You.”
I frowned. “Me?”
Mrs. Hale nodded. “She was afraid you’d be forgotten.”
The room felt very still. “She kept asking the same question.” Mrs. Hale paused. “Who will remember him?”
I swallowed hard. “The week before she died, she made me promise something.”
I already knew. Not the words exactly, just the feeling. Deep down, I’d always known.
