I sat by her bedside, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, each breath more labored than the last. The hospice room smelled like antiseptic and old flowers, and the dim light cast shadows on her sunken face. She had been fading for weeks, but today felt… different. Final.
The nurse had warned me it could be any moment now. “Sometimes, they hold on for one last thing,” she had said gently. I didn’t know what my mother was holding on for—until she finally opened her eyes.
She looked at me with a softness I hadn’t seen in years. Not since before my teenage rebellion, not since before all the hurtful things we’d both said to each other. I reached for her frail hand, barely holding back tears.
“Mama, it’s okay,” I whispered. “You can rest now.”
Her lips trembled as if forming words took everything she had left. I leaned in closer, my heart pounding. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but what she said shattered me.