“I know,” I answered quietly, looking down at the numbers.
“And the loan against the house…” she continued hesitantly.
“I know about the loan,” I interrupted gently.
“Do you have any other savings?” she asked me softly.
“We spent them all,” I admitted.
“Anything you could sell?” she inquired, scanning the room.
“I already sold my jewelry,” I told her honestly.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“So am I,” I replied, staring at the financial paperwork.
“Was it for his medical treatment?” she asked carefully.
“Yes,” I answered quietly. “When someone offers one more treatment, you don’t ask whether you can afford hope.”
She went quiet, understanding that when hope dies, the bills stay anyway.
A week after the funeral, I returned to St. Jude Regional Hospital to retrieve Simon’s remaining belongings.
A nurse named Brenda handed me a clear plastic bag. “I am so sorry for your loss, Gemma.”
