Chapter 23
The hospice room felt suffocating, heavy with the weight of grief and inevitable loss. The sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint scent of flowers that had wilted in the corner of the room, a reminder of how life continued to move forward even when it felt like everything was falling apart. You couldn't focus on the scent or the soft beeping of the machines. All you could focus on was him—the man who had been your rock, the one person who had always believed in you, now reduced to a fragile shell of who he once was.
Your grandpa lay in the bed, his breathing shallow and erratic, the only sign of life left in him. His chest rose and fell, but it was weak, almost as if he were fighting for every breath. The lines on his face had deepened, his skin almost translucent, and the once-strong hands that had guided you through life were now limp and frail in your own.
You had always thought you'd have more time. That there would be more moments to tell him how much you loved him, more chances to hear his advice, more opportunities to ask him for help when you didn't know where else to turn. But now... now it felt like everything was slipping away too quickly.
You sat next to him, your hand trembling as you held his, your thumb brushing over the skin that used to be so strong, so full of life. His fingers twitched slightly, but there was no grip in them anymore. His once-vibrant eyes fluttered open for a moment, but they looked through you, not at you, and you couldn't help but feel as though you were losing him more with every second that passed.
"Grandpa..." you whispered, your voice breaking as the tears that had been building finally spilled over. "It's me. I'm here. Don't leave me. I'm scared... I don't know how to do this without you."
His eyes barely flickered, and you knew he couldn't hear you, not really. The morphine was doing its job—keeping him comfortable, but also stealing him from you. Slowly, cruelly, taking him away bit by bit. His once-intelligent, sharp gaze was now cloudy, as if the world around him had turned into a blur.
Your heart ached as you looked at him. He wasn't just your grandfather. He was your protector, your teacher, the one who had always believed in you even when you didn't believe in yourself. The one who had shown you what true strength looked like, the kind of strength that wasn't defined by how much you could carry or how hard you could fight, but by the love you had for others and the sacrifices you made to keep them safe.
You felt so small in this moment, so utterly powerless. The weight of all the things you still wanted to say to him, all the things you had left unsaid, was pressing down on you. The words lodged in your throat, choking you.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now, Grandpa," you whispered, your voice barely audible as the tears fell freely down your face. "I don't know how to be without you. I don't know how to be strong like you."
You squeezed his hand, feeling the last bit of warmth that lingered there, even as his body cooled. His breath was labored now, and the silence in the room was deafening, filled only with the mechanical beeping of the machines that were keeping him alive when his body was ready to let go.
The door creaked open, and Vi stepped into the room. She had always been the kind of person who filled a room with her presence, but now, in the quiet of this hospice room, she seemed smaller somehow. Her confident stride had faltered, and her face was softened with concern. But when she saw you sitting there, clutching your grandpa's hand, her expression hardened, the protective mask she wore slipping back into place.
You didn't look up at her, not yet. You couldn't. You didn't want anyone to see you like this, vulnerable and broken, sitting next to someone who was slipping away from you.
But you felt her hand on your shoulder then, a quiet weight that grounded you, even in the chaos of your emotions. It was warm, solid—like her. Vi never needed to say much to offer comfort; her presence alone was enough.
"I'm sorry," you whispered to her, the words slipping out in a choked breath. "I'm so scared, Vi. I don't know how to let go."
Vi crouched next to you, her face softening as she looked at you with those fierce eyes, the ones that usually burned with determination, now clouded with sympathy. She didn't say anything at first, just sat beside you, her hand still on your shoulder. It was a rare moment of quiet tenderness from someone who usually didn't deal well with emotions, someone who always preferred to take action rather than sit in moments of pain.
"You don't have to do this alone," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm here. I'll be here."
You turned your head slightly, meeting her gaze. Her words were simple, but they carried so much weight. The promise that you weren't alone in this, that she wouldn't leave you to carry this burden by yourself. Her eyes locked with yours, and in that moment, you saw the depth of her love for you—silent, but there.
"I don't want him to go," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to be left without him. He was all I had."
Vi's expression softened even more. "You're not alone. Not with me."
The silence stretched on, the weight of it too much to bear, but you couldn't look away from your grandpa. You couldn't tear your gaze from him, even though every second felt like it was dragging you deeper into an abyss. You wanted to hold onto him for as long as you could, but at the same time, you knew it was selfish. You knew you had to let go.
You squeezed his hand again, your heart breaking. "I love you, Grandpa. I love you so much. I don't know what I'm going to do without you."
There was no response, just the faintest rise and fall of his chest, the soft rattle of his breath. For a moment, you could have sworn that he was still holding on, still listening to you, but then his breath became slower, more labored.
Your chest tightened as you looked at him, wishing that somehow, you could make him understand how much you needed him. How you didn't want to face this moment, didn't want to lose the one person who had always been there for you.
And then, in the quiet of the room, the beeping of the machine changed. It slowed, a gentle, almost imperceptible decline, but it was enough for you to notice. You held your breath, eyes glued to the screen, your heart pounding in your chest as the machine beeped one last time—a final, gentle sound that marked the end.
The room was still. The only sound was the soft echo of your own heart breaking.
Vi's hand tightened on your shoulder, her voice soft, but firm. "He's at peace now."
You couldn't speak, couldn't move. All you could do was sit there, holding his hand, feeling the last warmth leave his body. The finality of it was suffocating.
Vi didn't push you to leave. She stayed quietly by your side, letting you have your moment. You didn't know how long you sat there, time stretching and warping until it felt like nothing had ever really existed except for the two of you, this room, and the pain.
Eventually, you stood up, feeling like a part of you had been ripped away. Vi's steady hand found yours again, offering what little support she could. You didn't look back at your grandpa. You didn't want to. The room was empty now, and you couldn't bear to face it again.
But as you left, hand in hand with Vi, you knew that, even though your grandpa was gone, you wouldn't be alone. Not with her by your side. Not ever.
The envelope sat in your lap, worn and frayed at the edges, as though it had been handled many times. You hadn't been able to bring yourself to open it until now. It had been placed in your hands by your grandpa himself when he first realized his health was declining. He had known, even before you did, that time was running out. He had known, and in the quiet acceptance of that truth, he had written to you—his one final gift.
You carefully peeled back the seal and unfolded the letter, your hands trembling as you did. The paper smelled faintly of his cologne, a scent you would forever associate with him. Your heart ached as you read the familiar handwriting that had always been a source of comfort, even when you were a child, scribbled across the page.
My Dearest child,
If you're reading this, then I guess my time has finally come, and there's no way for me to be there in person to say the things I've always wanted to tell you. But I hope this letter reaches you in the way I intended, and that it brings some measure of comfort when the world feels a little too heavy.
I want you to know something right from the start, and I hope it helps you carry on when I'm no longer there to guide you.
You've always been more than my grandchild. From the moment you were born, I knew you were mine to protect, mine to care for. And not in the way grandparents are expected to, but in the way a parent would. You've been my kid just as much as any child I've ever known. You have this strength in you that's always been there, even when you didn't believe it yourself. And you have this heart that refuses to give up, even when it feels like the whole world is against you.
I've watched you grow, and I can't tell you how proud I am of what you've become. You've faced so much, yet you've kept going. I've always admired that about you. You didn't get that strength from anyone else. It's all you, and it's a beautiful thing.
There are going to be days when it's hard, I know that. Days when the weight of everything feels too much, and you'll want to crawl into yourself and shut everything out. That's okay. It's okay to feel like the world is against you, to feel broken and defeated. But don't you ever forget that you're not alone. Not even now.
When I'm gone, I don't want you to forget how loved you are. You've always been more than enough, exactly as you are. And I know that's something you've struggled with. But trust me, there's nothing wrong with you, not a damn thing. You're strong, you're kind, and you have this way of loving people that makes the world a better place.
I see you. I always have. Even the parts of you that you've tried to hide, the parts of you that you think are broken, I've always seen them. And I wouldn't change a thing about you. I love you—lesbian and all—and I've always been proud of who you are. You never needed to be anything different to be enough for me. You've always been perfect just the way you are.
So when you feel lost, when you feel like you're losing everything, remember this: I'm not really gone. Not fully. I'll always be with you. You won't see me, but I'll be there. I'll be watching over you from above. In the quiet moments, when you feel like you're standing on the edge, you'll hear my voice, and I'll remind you to stand tall, to take that next step, to never give up.
I won't leave you. Not ever.
I love you, more than words could ever say.
With all my heart,
Grandpa
The letter felt heavier than any of the burdens you had carried before. It was filled with love, with a sense of peace that you hadn't known you needed. You felt the weight of his words in your chest, felt them like a warm embrace even though he was no longer physically there.
The tears you had been holding back for so long began to fall freely, but this time, they felt different. They weren't just tears of loss, but tears of gratitude, of understanding. Your grandpa had always been there, and even though he was gone, his love and his wisdom would stay with you forever.
Vi stood behind you now, her hand on your shoulder, her presence a steady reminder that you weren't alone. You didn't need to say anything—she didn't need to ask. She knew, just as you knew, that this was your moment. You held the letter to your chest, pressing it close to your heart, as though you could keep him with you always, just a little longer.
And though the pain of his absence would never truly fade, you knew you would carry his love with you every day. You would live your life with the strength he'd given you, with the love he had always shown, and in the quiet moments, you would hear his voice, reminding you that you were never really alone.
Not with him watching over you. Not with Vi by your side. Not with the love you carried in your heart.
The letter wasn't just goodbye—it was a promise. And you would hold onto it, no matter what.
An: this hurt to write. But damn did it heal a part of me.