Chapter 5: The Final Week
In Danny’s last week of life, the projects that had always brought him joy began disappearing from his room. The model airplanes came down from their fishing line. The LEGO cities were disassembled and packed away. His sketchbooks, once filled with elaborate drawings of fantastical machines and impossible architectures, sat untouched on his desk.
“Spring cleaning?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light as I watched him box up years of creative work.
“Just getting rid of kid stuff,” he replied, not meeting my eyes.
Tuesday of that week, I found him crying in the garage—not the dramatic sobs of childhood frustration, but the quiet, hopeless weeping of someone who had given up. He was holding a photograph of the three of us from before Linda left, back when we were a complete family.
“I miss her,” he said simply when he saw me standing there.
“Me too, son.”
“Do you think things would be different if she’d stayed? If I had a mom to talk to?”
The question broke my heart because I’d wondered the same thing countless times. Would Linda have seen the signs I missed? Would she have known how to reach him when he started pulling away?
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m here, Danny. Whatever you’re going through, we can figure it out together.”
He nodded and wiped his eyes, but something in his expression told me he’d already made up his mind about something. At the time, I thought he was just processing his grief about his mother. I never imagined he was planning his goodbye.
