In the weeks before he passed away, I noticed that Jack had become unusually private. He occasionally left the house without explaining where he was going and spent more time on his laptop.
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“Where were you?”
“Out.”
“For that long?”
“I had something to take care of.”
“What kind of something?”
He smiled. “The kind you’ll understand eventually.”
I wanted to push harder, but I also knew he was going through a difficult period. I decided to give him some space.
After he was gone, I wondered whether that decision had been a mistake.
A few days later, I returned to collect his belongings. Among his watch, charger, and personal items was a gray cardigan I didn’t recognize.
“This isn’t mine,” I said.
The nurse looked at it carefully.
“I thought it belonged to someone who had been visiting him.”
