Then I saw one painting titled “The Last Thing I Remember.” It was a picture of the kitchen in our old house—sunlight pouring over a cup of tea, a plate with half-eaten toast, and a red cardigan sweater draped over a chair.
It was my red cardigan.
“He kept painting you,” Ruben whispered next to me. “Even when he was sick.”
It turned out that Felix had been fighting cancer for almost three years. He did it quietly. He didn’t tell anyone outside of a very small group. Not even his own sister. He just kept painting, as if he were trying to say all the things he never could with words.
I drove home that night feeling like I had been given a second chance that I hadn’t asked for—but one that I very much needed.
Home Is Who Stays
Over time, Ruben became a regular and important part of my life. He helped repaint my kitchen, showed me how to change the oil in my car, and even taught me how to cook a steak correctly on the grill (apparently, I had been doing it wrong for 20 years).
But it wasn’t just about fixing broken things.
He listened. He asked thoughtful questions. He remembered my birthday and brought me small gifts—a sunflower on a Tuesday, a box of sweet baklava after a bad week, a well-read copy of a novel I had mentioned off-hand.
One evening, as we were putting away a few of Felix’s old belongings that Ruben had inherited, we found a letter tucked inside a book of poetry. It was addressed simply: “To the person who stayed.”
I read it out loud.
Continue reading…
