Everywhere was red: the room, the bed, the once-vibrant orchids, even the sun filtering through the window. Not only that — this life, my life— all seemed futile. Men worked hard all their lives to die in pain and sorrow.
If only I could turn back time. Or summon some magical genie-like in my grandniece’s Disney movies. I’d give up every ounce of wealth I’ve accumulated over the years just to save my son’s life. I would do it without hesitation, without a second thought.
But Michael was slipping away before my eyes, his life ebbing with each shallow breath, and I was helpless. The doctors were of no use now. They stood there, heads bowed, unable to offer me the tired consolation of, “We tried our best.”
“Mom, look at me. Please, stop crying. I want to see your smile one last time.”
That was Michael—always so selfless, even in his final moments. He was the kind of person who could light up even the darkest heart and turn his bleakest day into something bright and hopeful. And now, I was losing him.
“I’m trying,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite my desperate attempts to steady it.
“It’s not so hard, you know,” he said, his hand, once warm and full of life, reaching up to touch my face. His fingers were ice-cold now, starkly contrasting with the warmth they once held.
I grasped his hand, trying to give him the strength I no longer had. But at that moment, I realized it wasn’t about me. It was about him. It was about letting him go, even when I didn’t know how.
“I love you, Mom… so, so much,” Michael whispered, his voice barely more than a fragile breath. Each word felt like it took everything he had left. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps, and I could see how much pain he was in.
Tears stung my eyes, but I forced a smile, even though the ache in my heart felt like it would tear me apart. “I love you more, Michael. So much more.”
I was crumbling inside, breaking under the weight of helplessness. My son, my Michael, was slipping away from me, and there was nothing I could do. Please, God, I begged silently, don’t let this happen. Not to him. Not yet. I’ve heard of miracles—stories of people saved in their final moments. If those miracles could happen for others, why not for him? If You save him, I swear I’ll be the most devoted Christian. I’ll go to church, and I’ll give up everything. Just give me this one thing. Let me keep him.
Michael took a shaky breath, his chest barely rising as he struggled to speak again. “I want you to… find happiness… that’s why….”
He was struggling, his voice trailing off, his words faltering as if trying to hold on long enough to say what he needed. But even then, his eyes—the love in them was still there, still shining despite everything.
How could I find happiness without him? The thought was unbearable. I lowered my head, resting it against his cold, lifeless chest. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I couldn’t tell him I’d be okay because I knew I wouldn’t. He would know I was lying.
“I will try to find happiness,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. If this lie would ease his mind, I’d repeat it a thousand times.
“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, his voice so soft yet full of gratitude.
I forced a smile through the tears. “Anything for you,”
Michael struggled to speak again, and I could feel the weight of what he was about to say. “Speaking of… I have something else to say.”
What is it?” I asked, closing my eyes, trying to memorize this moment. The weight of his hand was in mine, as was the sound of his voice and the scent that was uniquely his; this was the last time I’d hold my son or speak to him.
“I have a daughter.”
My eyes flew open, and I raised my head, staring at him in disbelief.
“You have a daughter?” I whispered, barely able to process what Michael had just said.
“Or… a son,” he murmured, his voice growing weaker every second. His words blurred together, fragile and faint.
“A son… or a daughter?” I repeated as if saying it out loud would make it real, something I could grasp onto. “How old?” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.
“They should be… twenty. Twenty years,” he said, his breaths coming in shallow gasps, each word a struggle.
My mind raced. “Where are they, Michael? Where is he or she?”
He shook his head slightly, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily before he forced them open again. “I don’t… know. Remember… when I took that trip… to Africa?”
“Yes, your trip to Nigeria eighteen years ago,” I said, trembling. “Michael, where is the mother? What’s her name?”
His lips parted, but the effort to speak was becoming too much. I could see the strain on his face, the way his body was failing him. I wanted to ask more, to demand answers, but I knew he didn’t have much time left. Every word was costing him precious energy.
“Stella,” he finally whispered, his voice barely audible. “I… I made a dumb decision. I told her I didn’t want a kid. I want you to find them and beg for my forgive…”
His voice trailed off, and I knew this was the last thing he wanted from me, the last request he would ever make.
And if it were the only thing I did before I died, I would find them. I would see his child. “I’ll find her, Michael. I promise I’ll find your child.”
He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “I want you… to love him or her… in place of me.”
My heart shattered. I didn’t want to love anyone in his place. I wanted him. I wanted my son. But I couldn’t say that. Not now. Not when he needed to hear something else.
“I will,” I said softly, forcing the words out through the lump in my throat. “I’ll love her. I’ll show her the best love possible.”
He sighed, a faint sound of relief escaping his lips. “I could die… hearing that.”
“Michael, don’t say that,” I whispered, even though I knew it was true. He was dying, and no one could save him. Not me, not the doctors, not God.
“Tell my daughter… I’m sorry. I just… have a feeling she’ll be a girl.”
There was a wistfulness in his voice, a quiet acceptance that he wouldn’t get to meet her, to say these things himself. Though the regret still lingered, it was as if he’d made peace with it.
“I wish you could be here to tell her yourself,” I said, the tears spilling down my cheeks, unchecked. My chest felt hollow like my heart had already broken apart inside of me.
“I’ll… be watching you… the both of you… from heaven,” he said, his voice fainter now, the words barely above a whisper.
“That should comfort me,” I said, though the truth was, nothing could comfort me. Not now. Everything sucked. Cancer sucked. Life sucked. I sucked.
His breathing slowed, and he smiled again, weak but full of love. “Mom… I love you. Never forget that and always tell my daughter… I loved her… if only I were… given the chance.”
Those were his last words.
I held onto him, watching as his body stilled, the life slipping away in that instant. His chest no longer rose and fell. His hands, already cold, were now ice against mine. He was gone. Completely and irrevocably gone.
The machines beside him beeped, a hollow, endless noise that told me what I already knew. His heart had stopped. He was no longer here.
The doctor, who I hadn’t even realized was still in the room, cleared his throat, his voice low. “At exactly 2:00 p.m., Michael Oliver Jackson passed away after a long battle with brain cancer.”
I barely heard him; the overwhelming silence that filled the room drowned out his voice, laughter, and presence. How could life be so cruel? How could it give me such a bright, sparkling child, someone who had fulfilled my world, only to take him away, leaving me holding his cold, lifeless body?
I stared down at him, my son, my beautiful boy, and felt the world’s weight crashing down on me. But there was one thing—one glimmer of hope. Finding his child. I would find her no matter where she was or what it took. That was all I had left now.
And in finding her, I could one day learn to live with this emptiness.