That choice became one of the things I revisited after he died, as though I could return to the kitchen and ask the one question that would make him answer differently.

About five weeks after that afternoon, his condition worsened quickly.

At the hospital, I held his hand and watched him struggle to remain awake.

“You look scared,” he whispered.

“So do you.”

“I’m allowed.”

“So am I.”

He almost smiled.