Her lips curved slightly.
“Can it buy books too?”
I laughed through tears.
“Yes. As many as we can.”
By dawn, the documents were ready.
Nora and another nurse served as witnesses. A mobile notary, a stern woman in snow boots, arrived before sunrise. Lily signed slowly, each letter costing her effort.
When the final stamp pressed into the page, Lily leaned back and closed her eyes.
“I can breathe now,” she whispered.
For the next two days, we did not speak Colin’s name.
We talked about Chicago. Her childhood. Her students. The boy who hated reading until she gave him adventure books. The little girl who brought her a drawing every Friday. The classroom hamster that escaped twice in one week.
We looked through the old glitter album.
She laughed once when she saw a crooked paper heart.
It was small.
It was everything.
On the third afternoon, pale sunlight moved across the room. Lily opened her eyes and looked directly at me.
“I love you, Mom.”
I held her hand between both of mine.
“Always, baby.”
She took one more breath.
Then she was gone.
I stayed beside her for hours.
I held her hand as the room grew quiet and thought of every version of her I had loved.
The child in rain boots.
The teenager with glitter glue on her fingers.
The teacher who bought snacks for students who came to school hungry.
The woman who deserved better than a man who saw her suffering as an expense.
I could not save her from cancer.
