He waited for my Birthday!

He asked me with his eyes—don’t send me away.

My uncle had cancer. The kind that makes a person disappear slowly, piece by piece. But he didn’t want to die in a hospice bed, surrounded by strangers and the scent of antiseptic. He wanted to stay home. With us. With me.

And I knew I had to make that happen.

Not because it was easy. But because I saw what he needed—and I could give it.

We had a couple of months. Gentle ones. Fading ones. He grew weaker, quieter, smaller. But we had time to sit, to laugh, to just be.

The Wednesday came. I felt it should have been the day. He looked like he was ready. But he didn’t go.

Saturday, we started morphine and nappies. His body was letting go. But still—he stayed.

And then came Sunday.

My birthday.

He’d been trying to say something, but it was just sound—rasps and whispers. But I listened harder. I leaned in. And I heard it:

“Happy birthday.”

My heart cracked open right there.

I thanked him. And after that—he calmed.

He waited for me to fall asleep.

And then, he left.