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“I’m not afraid,” she said too quickly. “I’m being realistic. He’s probably dead. Or married. Or doesn’t remember her.”
“Then let me find that out.”
“No.”
“Mom—”
“I said no!”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and for a second, I saw something flicker behind her eyes. Something that wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
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“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just stop.”
“Mom, look at her.” I gestured toward the hospital bed where Grandma slept, frail and small under the white blanket. “She has weeks. Maybe less. And she’s dreamed about this man for 60 years.”
“Then let her keep dreaming,” my mother whispered. “Dreams don’t hurt people. Truth does.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“It is my decision,” she said. “She’s my mother.”
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