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Hours passed. Then days.
I signed the paperwork alone. I held Daniel’s hand alone. I whispered every memory I could think of into his ear, hoping some part of him could hear me.
When he passed, it was just me and the hum of machines powering down.
Friends called her heartless. My family refused to say her name. I replayed that moment over and over — the way she picked up her purse, the way she avoided my eyes. I couldn’t understand how a mother could walk away from her dying child.
Then, two weeks after the funeral, I found the envelope.
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