Michael himself had squeezed my hand and whispered, “Go.”
I had been gone for less than two hours.
Rebecca had been there.
I turned slowly toward the phone.
“You let her into his room?”
Emily began crying.
“Dad asked me to.”
I felt betrayed in a way I couldn’t explain.
Not because Michael had seen another woman.
Because everyone in that hallway knew something about my husband’s final hours except me.
“Play it,” I said.
Daniel hesitated.
“Play it.”
He pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket and pressed a button.
Static.
Then Michael’s voice filled the room.
Weak.
Breathless.
But unmistakable.
“Emily, if you’re hearing this, then I didn’t get the chance to explain things myself.”
I covered my mouth.
Six years disappeared.
I was back beside his hospital bed.
Back holding his hand.
Back listening to the machines.
The recording continued.
“Your mother thinks she knows the worst thing I ever did.”
