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\u201cWhere is Patrick,\u201d I asked, my voice trembling. \u201cI need to speak with him.\u201d<\/p>\n
She said nothing at first. Instead, she stepped aside and returned moments later holding a small wooden box. Her hands shook as she offered it to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe passed away,\u201d she said through tears. \u201cIt has been five years.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words struck like a physical blow. I felt my chest tighten, my breath shortening. \u201cThat is impossible,\u201d I said. \u201cWe divorced five years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded slowly. \u201cHe was sick long before that. Terminal cancer. He knew there was no cure.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room seemed to tilt. I grasped the edge of a chair to steady myself.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe did not want you to watch him fade,\u201d she continued. \u201cHe did not want your last memories to be hospitals and pain. Leaving you was the hardest thing he ever did, but he believed it was the only way to set you free.\u201d<\/p>\n
She placed the box in my lap. Inside was a folded letter, the handwriting instantly familiar.<\/p>\n
I opened it with shaking fingers.<\/p>\n