I stared at the photograph.
Theo rushed on.
“Not because he didn’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“He said you and Mr. Harris needed hope.”
That hurt.
“He was the sick one.”
“I told him that.”
“What did he say?”
Theo smiled sadly.
“He said, ‘Yeah, but Mom’s dramatic.'”
I laughed through my tears.
“That little jerk.”
“He loved you.”
“I know.”
“He wasn’t pretending to be hopeful.”
That mattered.
I looked at him.
Theo said, “He wanted college. He wanted to travel. He really thought treatment might work.”
Then he added, “He just knew it might not.”
Both things.
Hope and fear.
My 18-year-old son had somehow learned they could exist together before I did.
I asked Theo, “Did he talk about dying often?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Maybe three times.”
I nodded.
“Was he scared?”
Theo didn’t answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
“Yes,” he finally said.
I started crying again.
