It was the middle of last winter when my husband, Michael, deceased. On his final day, as the snow quietly carpeted the windows outside, he asked that everyone else leave the room. Our son, relatives, and close friends all completed, leaving just the two of us in that still hospital room.
He turned to me, his voice soft but adamant.
“I have to go first, Emily,” he said.
“But you’ll stay. And when I’m gone, promise me you won’t just stay home, grieving.
Go out, live your life. Be happy. Our son is still young—please, raise him well, and watch him grow for the both of us.”
Tears welled in my eyes, but I bobbed soundlessly.
Then his expression became serious, and he lowered his voice even more. “One last thing. There’s a savings book—$400,000 in our names.
Maintain it. Use it for yourself if you ever need it. But don’t ever tell our son about it.”
I blinked, baffled.
“Why, Michael? He should—”
“Promise me, Em. Don’t tell him.”
I paused, then muttered, “I promise.”
At that time, I didn’t fully understand.
I simply obeyed. He had never asked much of me before. And in my grief, I pushed the savings book away in the bottom of an old jewelry box and didn’t touch it again for years.
Over two decades earlier, Michael and I had married and built a simple life together. He was never a man of big words or grand dreams, but he worked harder than anyone I knew. Together we opened a small hardware store on the edge of town, and through sheer dedication, we transformed it into a booming little business.
Our son, Noah, was born a few years later. He is a bright, compassionate boy who loved books and fixing things with his dad. We were so proud of him.
But life has its weird timing.
Just as we were preparing for retirement, Michael was diagnosed with terminal lung canc3r. The news struck like thunder, making us of breath and clarity. We tried everything such as specialists, second opinions, alternative treatments but it was already too late.
His passing left me devastated, digged out. I spent the months after in a haze of sadness, surviving on autopilot, centering only on keeping our home and raising Noah. It wasn’t until years later, when I myself fell seriously ill and found myself confined to a hospital bed, that I thought again of Michael’s last words.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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