I moved past her.
Frank was lying exactly where I had left him.
But now the room was completely quiet.
There was no rush of oxygen.
No strained breathing.
No machine measuring the time he had left.
I took his hand in mine and pressed it against my cheek.
“You should have told me,” I whispered.
My tears fell across his cold fingers.
“You should have let me thank you, Dad.”
The nurse quietly set a small plastic bag near me.
“These were his personal belongings.”
Inside were Frank’s keys, his watch, and the battered brown wallet I had seen him carry for as long as I could remember.
I opened it.
Behind his driver’s license was an old, worn photograph.
Miley stood beside a kitchen table with a plate of star-shaped apple pancakes.
The edges had softened from years of being handled.
