Emma set down her bag.

“Another excuse for us to feel sorry for him?”

I told them the truth as carefully as I could.

Neither interrupted. When I finished, Josh stared at the floor. Emma crossed her arms.

“So he wasn’t having an affair?”

“No.”

“And he let us believe it?”

“Yes.”

Josh stared at me.

“How long has he got?”

“The doctors think it may be only days.”

Emma began crying.

“I hated him, Mom. I hated him for what he did to you.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“He let me hate him while he was dying?”

“He thought he was protecting us.”

“That’s not protecting anyone!”

Josh wiped his eyes.

“Can we see him?”

“Yes. I’ll take you both tomorrow morning.”

The next morning, we went to the hospital together.

Daniel was sitting up when we entered, but his face changed when he saw the children.

“Emma. Josh.”

Emma stopped at the foot of his bed.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Daniel looked down.

“I knew if I told you, you’d want to help. I imagined you missing classes, turning down opportunities, and spending your free time taking care of me. I thought staying away would protect you from that.”

“So you made us think you were a cheating husband instead?” Emma asked.

His eyes filled.

“I thought you’d eventually move on. Then I was ashamed, and I didn’t know how to tell you the truth.”

Josh shook his head.

“We would have helped you, Dad.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even give us the chance.”

Daniel began crying.

“I was afraid of becoming a burden. I convinced myself that staying away was the kindest thing I could do.”

Emma wiped her cheeks.

“Well, it wasn’t.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Emma pulled a chair beside his bed.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”

“You don’t have to.”

She reached for his hand.

“But I’m here.”

Josh moved to the other side of the bed and placed his hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

And for the first time in five years, we were all together in one room.

Two days later, Daniel was transferred to a hospice.

By then, he was much weaker.

He could barely sit up without assistance, and speaking exhausted him.

The nurses explained that his condition was deteriorating quickly.

They focused on keeping him comfortable and managing his symptoms.

Emma and Josh visited every day.

Sometimes we sat quietly beside him.

Other times, we looked through old photographs and talked about memories he’d missed.

On Thursday afternoon, Emma brought a photograph of Daniel teaching her to ride a bicycle.

“Remember this?” she asked.

Daniel smiled faintly.

“You fell into the bushes.”

Emma laughed through her tears.

“Because you let go!”

“You told me to.”

“I was seven!”

For a moment, he laughed too.

Later, when the children went downstairs for coffee, Daniel asked me to stay.

“Do you hate me?” he whispered.

I looked at him.

“I did for a long time.”

He closed his eyes.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I don’t hate you now, Daniel. But I’m still hurt.”

“I know.”

“If you’d told me five years ago, maybe we’d still be married. Maybe things would have been difficult. But we would have made those decisions together.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I should have trusted you.”

“Yes. You should have.”

He reached for my hand.

“I can’t give you those years back.”

“No,” I whispered. “You can’t.”

I held his hand until he fell asleep.

That evening, the hospice nurse told us Daniel’s condition was worsening and encouraged us to spend whatever time we could with him.

I called Emma and Josh and told them to come back in the morning.

On Friday morning, exactly one week after Daniel called me from the hospital, I arrived at the hospice before breakfast.

Emma and Josh were already there.

Daniel was sleeping, his breathing slow and uneven.

The nurse explained that he was nearing the end of his life.

We pulled our chairs close to his bed.

Emma held his left hand while Josh sat beside her.

I sat on Daniel’s right.

For a while, nobody spoke.

Then Josh took out his phone and played one of the old jazz songs Daniel used to listen to on Sunday mornings.

Daniel opened his eyes briefly.

“Remember the pancakes, Dad?” Emma whispered.

A faint smile crossed his face.

“You always wanted chocolate chips.”

Emma laughed through her tears.

“Every Sunday.”

Daniel looked toward me.

“Claire?”

“I’m here.”

His voice was barely audible.

“Will you stay?”

I leaned closer and took his hand.

“Yes, Daniel.”

“Even after everything?”

“Even after everything.”

He squeezed my fingers weakly.

“Thank you.”

I brushed the hair away from his forehead.

“You can rest now. We’re all here.”

His eyes slowly closed.

We sat beside him as the music played quietly.

After a while, his breathing became slower, with longer pauses between breaths.

Then he took one final breath.

I waited, still holding his hand.

The nurse came forward, checked him, and gently confirmed that he had passed away.

Emma began sobbing against Josh’s shoulder.

I leaned over Daniel and kissed his forehead.

“Goodbye,” I whispered.

Then I pulled the blanket gently over his hand and stayed beside him while our children cried.

We buried Daniel four days later.

Emma and Josh stood beside me as his coffin was lowered into the ground.

I hadn’t expected to cry as much as I did, but when Josh placed a photograph of the four of us beside the flowers, I couldn’t hold back my tears.

After the funeral, we returned to my house.

For the first time in five years, the three of us talked about Daniel without anger.

We remembered his terrible jokes, his Sunday pancakes, and how he always sang off-key in the car.

That evening, after the children left, I placed our old family photograph on the mantel.

I stood looking at it for a long time.

Then I whispered, “I wish you’d told me, Daniel.”