He asked thoughtful questions and remembered every answer.
When I mentioned that my mother used to make cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings, he asked for the recipe. When I told him I hated driving during thunderstorms, he checked the weather before my visits and called if the roads looked dangerous.
He never treated me like a volunteer.
He treated me like a person whose time mattered.
I began bringing homemade meals instead of the frozen dinners provided by the hospice program. I brought chicken potpie, vegetable soup, meatloaf, and once, a terrible attempt at lemon bread.
Carl ate two slices.
“You don’t have to pretend it’s good,” I said.
“I’m dying, Megan. I no longer waste time pretending.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“It isn’t good,” he admitted. “But it was made with great confidence.”
We both laughed until he started coughing.
That happened more often as the weeks passed.
His body was weakening quickly.
There were days when he couldn’t finish a game. Days when he fell asleep while I read aloud. Days when the pain medication left him confused.
Still, he rarely complained.
One afternoon, I found him sitting beside the living room window, watching a father help his daughter learn to ride a bicycle across the street.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, but his eyes remained on them.
“I spent most of my life believing there would always be more time.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
He finally looked at me.
“Family. Forgiveness. Honesty.”
I sat beside him.
“Is there someone you need to call?”
“There are people I could call,” he said. “That doesn’t mean they would be family.”
I wanted to ask more, but I could tell he wasn’t ready.
Instead, I made tea.
The Final Wish
Two weeks later, I arrived and found a priest sitting in Carl’s living room.
Carl introduced him as Father Michael, an old friend.
I assumed they were discussing funeral arrangements.
After the priest left, Carl asked me to sit down.
His face was pale, and his breathing seemed shallow.
“Megan, I need to ask you something unusual.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It might be.”
He reached for my hand but stopped before touching it, giving me the chance to pull away.
I didn’t.
Then he said it.
“Marry me.”
