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The morning the doctor said David had only weeks left, our home seemed to lose all sound.
For fifteen years, we had built a steady marriage and raised two children. I believed I knew him completely. But after the diagnosis, David became distant, staring at the ceiling with a fear deeper than his illness.
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Whenever I asked what was wrong, he said he was tired.
Three weeks into hospice, he reached beneath his pillow and handed me an old photograph. A solemn sixteen-year-old girl stared back at me.
“Her name is Grace,” he said. “I need you to adopt her before I die.”
The request froze me.
I demanded to know who she was. David only asked me to trust him and said she had no one else.
“Is she your daughter?”
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He closed his eyes as a tear slid down his cheek.