I was standing in the hotel ballroom three months after my father’s funeral when I found it in the pocket of his suit: a tiny, flat hearing aid battery. I knew what it was. I had watched him change those silver batteries at the kitchen table for years, using his little orange tool and never asking anyone for help. He always kept a spare because he believed in preparing for small inconveniences. Even at weddings, he carried an extra battery so he could hear every word clearly.
I turned it over in my palm, remembering how quiet he had become during his final weeks. We had blamed the illness and fatigue. I had privately wondered whether he was pulling away from us. Then I realized something that stopped me cold. What if he had not been withdrawing at all? What if he simply could not hear us anymore at all?
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