The Last Song(132)

“Yes,” he said. “But mostly I enjoyed sharing that moment with you.”


Two days later, she resolved to read his final letter. She would do it soon, before he was gone. Not tonight, but soon, she promised herself. It was late at night, and the day with her dad had been the hardest yet. The medicine didn’t seem to be helping him at all. Tears leaked out of his eyes as spasms of pain racked his body; she begged him to let her bring him to the hospital, but still he refused.

“No,” he gasped. “Not yet.”

“When?” she asked desperately, close to tears herself. He didn’t answer, only held his breath, waiting for the pain to pass. When it did, he seemed suddenly weaker, as if it had sheared away a sliver of the little life he had left.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said. His voice was a ragged whisper.

She kissed the back of his hand. “Anything,” she said.

“When I first received my diagnosis, I signed a DNR. Do you know what that is?” He searched her face. “It means I don’t want any extraordinary measures that might keep me alive. If I go to the hospital, I mean.”

She felt her stomach twist in fear. “What are you trying to say?”

“When the time comes, you have to let me go.”

“No,” she said, beginning to shake her head, “don’t talk like that.”

His gaze was gentle but insistent. “Please,” he whispered. “It’s what I want. When I go to the hospital, bring the papers. They’re in my top desk drawer, in a manila envelope.”

“No… Dad, please,” she cried. “Don’t make me do that. I can’t do that.”

He held her gaze. “Even for me?”

That night, his whimpers were broken by a labored, rapid breathing that terrified her. Though she had promised she would do what he asked, she wasn’t sure she could.

How could she tell the doctors not to do anything? How could she let him die?


On Monday, Pastor Harris picked them both up and drove them to the church to watch the window being installed. Because he was too weak to stand, they brought a lawn chair with them. Pastor Harris helped her support him as they slowly made their way to the beach. A crowd had gathered in anticipation of the event, and for the next few hours, they watched as workers carefully set the window in place. It was as spectacular as she’d imagined it would be, and when the final brace was bolted into place, a cheer went up. She turned to see her father’s reaction and noticed that he’d fallen asleep, cocooned in the heavy blankets she’d draped over him.

With Pastor Harris’s help, she brought him home and put him in bed. On his way out, the pastor turned to her.

“He was happy,” he said, as much to convince himself as her.

“I know he was,” she assured him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “It’s exactly what he wanted.”

Her dad slept for the rest of the day, and as the world went black outside her window, she knew it was time to read the letter. If she didn’t do it now, she might never find the courage.

The light in the kitchen was dim. After tearing open the envelope, she slowly unfolded the page. The handwriting was different from his previous letters; gone was the flowing, open style she’d expected. In its place was something like a scrawl. She didn’t want to imagine what a struggle it must have been to write the words or how long it had taken him. She took a deep breath and began to read.


Hi, sweetheart,

I’m proud of you.

I haven’t said those words to you as often as I should have. I say them now, not because you chose to stay with me through this incredibly difficult time, but because I wanted you to know that you’re the remarkable person I’ve always dreamed you could be.

Thank you for staying. I know it’s hard for you, surely harder than you imagined it would be, and I’m sorry for the hours that you’re going to inevitably spend alone. But I’m especially sorry because I haven’t always been the father you’ve needed me to be. I know I’ve made mistakes. I wish I could change so many things in my life. I suppose that’s normal, considering what’s happening to me, but there’s something else I want you to know.

As hard as life can be and despite all my regrets, there have been moments when I felt truly blessed. I felt that way when you were born, and when I took you to the zoo as a child and watched you stare at the giraffes in amazement. Usually, those moments don’t last long; they come and go like ocean breezes. But sometimes, they stretch out forever.

That’s what the summer was like for me, and not only because you forgave me. The summer was a gift to me, because I came to know the young woman I always knew you would grow into. As I told your brother, it was the best summer of my life, and I often wondered during those idyllic days how someone like me could have been blessed with a daughter as wonderful as you.