I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
He smiled.
“Nothing.”
But I knew it wasn’t nothing.
That night, I asked him if he was afraid of dying.
He stared through the window.
“I’ve had a long life.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smiled.
“I’m not afraid of dying.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He was silent for a long time.
“Leaving things unfinished.”
I took his hand.
“You haven’t left anything unfinished.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t know that.”
I squeezed his fingers.
“I know you.”
He smiled.
“I hope you do.”
It was the last serious conversation we ever had.
Two weeks later, Richard died peacefully in his sleep.
And for the second time in my life, I sat beside the bed of a man I loved and watched the person I depended on disappear.
I thought I knew what came next.
I was wrong.
The lawyer arrived the following morning.