I returned to the hospital several times during the following weeks. Sometimes Richard wanted to talk, while other days he preferred silence. I learned to sit beside him without feeling obligated to fill every quiet moment. Gradually, our conversations became more comfortable.

He occasionally spoke about his childhood, his years working long hours, and the mistakes he believed he’d made as a father. He never offered dramatic apologies, but I sensed regret beneath his words. Once, he admitted that he’d spent so much time demanding strength from others that he’d forgotten people sometimes needed kindness.

His condition worsened unexpectedly, and one morning my mother called to tell me he’d passed away. I felt a sadness I hadn’t anticipated. Although we’d never been particularly close, those final visits had revealed a side of him that few relatives had experienced. I attended his funeral, remembering the quiet conversations we’d shared.

Several days later, the family gathered at his attorney’s office for the reading of his will. His children each received $40,000, along with several personal belongings. When my name was mentioned, the attorney announced that Richard had left me his old brown coat. My cousins exchanged amused glances. One laughed and suggested that Richard had found a final way to criticize me. I accepted the coat without responding, although I couldn’t understand why he’d chosen such an unusual gift.