Welcome back to Holding On.
Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, we followed David as he stood by Ralph’s bedside. Faced Rachel’s exhaustion. Let the rain fall. And finally—stepped forward.
Not with eloquence. But with presence.
Now, we return to the hospice.
To a daughter tired of deciding alone.
To a son still learning how to stay.
To the space between regret and repair.
What unfolds is quiet—not small.
Because sometimes, the first step toward healing is simply not turning away.
Still holding on. Even when it hurts.
Chapter Twelve
David pushed open the door to Ralph’s room, the sharp tang of disinfectant stinging his nose. The smell clung to him, relentless, dragging him back to hospital corridors and quiet dread. A small bouquet of carnations sat in a glass vase on the bedside table, their cheery colors too loud against the flat white walls, like they didn’t belong.
Rachel stood by the window, speaking quietly with a nurse. She didn’t turn when the door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, David just watched her. The slump of her shoulders told him everything—she looked like she was holding up the sky on her own.
He stepped closer, catching the end of their conversation.
“… the DNR is finalized… everything’s in place.”
His voice cut through the room, sharper than intended. “What did you just say?”
Rachel turned, slowly. Her face was drawn, her eyes steady. “It’s the DNR,” she said. “I signed it with the nurse this morning. There wasn’t time to wait.”
David blinked. “You and the nurse,” he repeated, disbelieving. “And no one thought to tell me?”
“There wasn’t time, David,” she said again, quieter now. “Dad can’t sign for himself anymore. And we both know this is what he wanted.”
“You didn’t even give me a chance to weigh in,” he said, stepping forward. “You just… decided.”
Rachel rubbed her temple, holding herself like she might splinter. “We’ve talked about this before. He made his wishes clear.”
“No,” David snapped. “You decided. Like you always do.”
A beat passed. Then Rachel’s exhaustion hardened. “When, David? During one of your shifts? Or during one of your rare visits, where you waltz in, crack a joke, and pretend that’s enough?”
Her words landed. He flinched but didn’t back down. “You think I don’t care.”
Rachel crossed her arms. “I think I’ve had to act like I don’t.”
They stood there, the silence brittle.
“I didn’t realize things were this bad,” David said finally. His voice had dropped, barely more than breath.
“Exactly,” Rachel said. “You didn’t realize. Because you’re not here.”
David looked at the floor. His fists were clenched tight at his sides. “I’m here now.”
Rachel let out a short, bitter laugh. “Now isn’t always enough.”
David turned to the bed. Ralph’s chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. His hands lay still on the blanket—hands David remembered guiding his own, steadying the miniature frame of a dollhouse roof while the glue set. Now they looked unfamiliar. Small. Almost folded in.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
Rachel didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice had softened, the sharpness gone. “None of us do. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying.”
The silence shifted. Less weight, more pause. Rachel turned back to the window, her arms crossed again—but looser this time, like she didn’t need to hold quite so much. David stayed where he was, looking at Ralph, unsure if he belonged or was just passing through.
David stepped outside, the cold biting through his jacket and tightening across his chest. He inhaled deeply, hoping the air might cut through the weight, but it only settled deeper.
The parking lot stretched out before him, shadows nesting in the cracks of the uneven pavement. Gravel shifted beneath his boots—a low crunch, steady and accusing.
What good is being here now?
The thought clung like cold smoke. Unrelenting.
He’d stayed away too long. Told himself Rachel could handle it.
And she had—because she had no other choice.
But now, seeing Ralph so still, so unfamiliar, the truth didn’t move. Just chilled the air.
He should’ve stayed. Should’ve asked more. Shown up.
At the edge of the lot, he gripped the railing. The metal was crusted with frost, biting into his palms.
But the sting didn’t reach where it needed to. The ache was deeper. Older.
The dollhouse came back to him.
Ralph’s hands—steady, measured—guiding each cut.
David sanding edges, unsure of himself until a quiet nod settled him.
And Liam, three years old, wielding a plastic hammer like he’d built the whole thing.
David had rolled his eyes then. Impatient. Maybe unkind.
He wouldn’t do that now.
The dollhouse had leaned slightly—just enough to notice. The front window wouldn’t shut properly.
David had offered to fix it, but Ralph just smiled.
“Not everything needs straightening.”
He hadn’t meant the window.
Those small gestures had been everything.
A hand on his shoulder. A shared silence.
A quiet confidence passed down without ceremony.
David had felt seen. Enough.
But Ralph wasn’t nodding now.
The thought caught in his throat: Had he ever really shown up?
He let go of the railing, his breath catching in the air—brief and disappearing, like the time he’d wasted.
The pavement below shimmered under the flickering light, a fractured mirror catching the shadows he couldn’t quite shake.
Ralph had been the steady one. The fixer.
And Rachel—Rachel had picked up where he should’ve stood.
He’d let her.
Told himself she didn’t need him. That he’d only be in the way.
But maybe it wasn’t too late.
Maybe showing up now didn’t erase what he’d missed, but it could still mean something.
He inhaled again. The cold burned down his throat.
Then he turned, slowly, back toward the building.
He didn’t know how to make it right. Not yet.
But he wouldn’t let Rachel carry this alone.
Not again.
David lingered by the entrance, hands buried deep in his pockets, breath rising in pale clouds that dissolved into the night air. The faint hum of voices and footsteps seeped through the hospice walls—a muted reminder that life continued, even here. Even now.
He stared at the cracked pavement, shadows stretching under the flickering streetlights. Looking down felt easier. The stars might’ve been out tonight, but he didn’t dare look up.
He’d spent too long believing there’d be more time—time to show up, to fix what needed fixing. But time wasn’t generous. It slipped past, silent and relentless, like the rain that had dried on the concrete. Now, all he had left was the weight of what he hadn’t done.
The soft click of the door behind him broke his thoughts—sharp as a pebble hitting still water. He turned, half expecting a nurse. But it was Rachel.
She stepped into the cold, arms wrapped tightly around herself, breath visible in the glow from the doorway. For a moment, she hesitated—caught between speaking and retreating.
“You okay?” she asked, quieter than he’d expected.
David stiffened, shoulders hunched. “Not really,” he admitted. “I should’ve been here sooner.”
She exhaled. The sound was soft, but her breath hitched.
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe you should’ve.”
Her bluntness landed harder than accusation. No venom. No heat. Just the quiet weariness that made his chest ache.
He opened his mouth, but Rachel spoke again.
“But you’re here now,” she said. Her voice softer now. Like a blade set down.
The knot in his chest loosened. Just enough to breathe. He hadn’t expected forgiveness. But her words gave him something to hold.
“I’ll do better,” he said. “I’ll… be here. For Dad. For you.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered, unreadable in the half-light. Then her lips curved into a small, tired smile.
“Okay,” she said. Not absolution. Not warmth. But enough.
David nodded, the cold stinging his lungs. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured.
Rachel’s arms stayed folded for a beat. Then dropped. Small movement. But enough.
He saw her differently now—not unshakable, but just as worn and lost. Someone who had been waiting, too.
“Yeah,” she replied. Voice steady, though the tremor betrayed her. “We will.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was fragile. Shared.
They turned back toward the hospice. The hum of life drawing them in.
For the first time in a long time, David didn’t feel like he was trailing behind.
They stepped through the door. Side by side.
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