And it was the last.
Victor died quietly shortly before dawn.
No struggle.
No dramatic final moment.
His hand was resting in mine.
I stayed beside him for a long time afterward.
Then I smoothed his blanket, gently closed his eyes, and called Dr. Vance.
I didn’t scream.
There was only a vast, silent grief.
The man my family had treated like an inconvenient financial burden had held on long enough for me to come home so he wouldn’t have to die alone.
Sarah handled the legal notifications while I arranged a dignified cremation and a small military memorial service.
Six Marine veterans attended.
Two neighbors.
Dr. Vance.
Sarah.
And me.
Mom wasn’t there.
Neither were Mason or Chloe.
They were still posting photographs from the cruise.
One photo showed Mom raising a champagne glass against the sunset.
The caption read:
“Last night in paradise!”
I didn’t comment.
