“You look scared,” he whispered softly, barely able to lift his fingers.
“So do you,” I replied, brushing his pale hand with mine.
“I am allowed to be,” he murmured softly.
“So am I,” I told him, fighting back my tears.
He almost smiled. “You will be okay.”
“Don’t say that,” I begged him, shaking my head.
“You will,” he repeated with certainty.
“No, Simon,” I whispered softly.
“Promise me you will keep going,” he said, squeezing my fingers with the little strength he had left.
“I don’t know how,” I admitted through tears.
“You will figure it out, because you always do,” he reassured me.
Those were the last clear words he said to me before he slipped away.
Three days later, I sat at the kitchen table with a heavy funeral bill and two overdue notices spread out before me.
The woman from the bank cleared her throat awkwardly. “There isn’t enough left to cover next month, Gemma.”
