“I already sold my jewelry.”
Se quedó callada.
– Lo siento.
“Yo también”.
“¿Todo fue por su tratamiento?”
– Sí.
“And you borrowed against the house?”
I stared at the paperwork.
“When someone offers one more treatment, you don’t ask whether you can afford hope.”
She didn’t answer.
Because the cruel part is that hope can disappear.
The bills don’t.
A week after the funeral, I went back to the hospital to collect Jack’s belongings.
A nurse named Rachel handed me a bag.
“I’m so sorry, Claire.”
“Gracias”.
Inside were his watch, phone charger, toiletries, a paperback book—
and a gray women’s cardigan.
I pulled it out.
“This isn’t mine.”
Rachel looked at it.
“Oh. I thought it belonged to the woman who visited him.”
My stomach dropped.
“What woman?”
Rachel immediately looked uncomfortable.
“I assumed she was family.”
“Jack didn’t have family.”
