“This is it,” he said. “He’s fallen asleep, and he’s not going to wake up again.”

“Yes, this is it,” I agreed.

And although neither of us used the D word, we both knew that, given his rapid decline and laboured Cheynes-Stokes breathing, he was dying. So by his bedside we both sat, I, with my hand comforting him on his shoulder, and him, crying in sorrow, watching his father rest in comfort.

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