As his health declined, I stayed.
I was there through the restless nights and the fragile mornings.
And when the end came, it was gentle. He held my hand, his grip weak but certain, grateful above all that he wasn’t alone.

Afterward, grief settled over me like a weight I couldn’t shake. Still, beneath it was a quiet certainty: I had done what was right.

At the funeral, she appeared—his daughter—for the first time in months. Her voice cut through the room, sharp and impatient, more concerned with property than loss. She spoke confidently about inheritance, as if the matter were already settled.

I said nothing.

Grief had taught me that not every battle deserves a response. I left early, choosing silence over argument, peace over proving a point.

I believed that chapter was closed.

Nearly a month later, my phone rang late at night.

Her voice was strained, stripped of the confidence she’d worn so easily before. She demanded that I come to the house immediately.

Uneasy but concerned, I returned to the place I had once cared for so carefully.

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