When hospice was mentioned, Deborah did not break down. She simply absorbed it quietly and looked at me with a calm resolve. “Mum, I don’t want them to be scared. Promise me we’ll keep things light.” Even in the face of death, she wanted warmth surrounding her family. She wanted laughter drifting through the room where she would take her final breaths. She wanted her children to step into the space without dread. She wanted to be remembered smiling, as she had lived. That was who she was: someone who brought sunlight into the bleakest corners, determined to soften the sharp edges for those around her. The last days, surprisingly, carried a gentleness. She slept more often, spoke more quietly. When awake, she held my hand with startling clarity, as if concentrating all her remaining strength into those brief interactions. She didn’t dwell on dying. She talked about Hugo and Eloise, about milestones she wished she could witness, about the love she wanted them to feel in every stage of their lives. She talked about resilience and hope, her voice faint but steady. Gradually, sleep pulled her away for longer stretches; her movements softened; her breaths deepened. Then came that final morning—a morning wrapped in an unbearable stillness, when the air itself felt delicate. I held her hand, remembering the feel of her newborn fingers decades earlier, and whispered, “It’s okay, sweetheart. You can rest now.” She exhaled softly, almost peacefully, a breath that felt like both a surrender and a release. And in that gentle sigh, she slipped free. Continue reading…
