How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

Elodie drifted somewhere between sleep and waking.

She felt dampness on the back of her hand, and the pain in her abdomen had faded to a dull ache. She recognized these sensations-someone must have given her a painkiller.

Turning her head, she met Jarrod's gaze. His eyes were rimmed red, betraying sleepless worry.

When he saw her awake, he opened his mouth to speak, but his voice caught, dry and hoarse. He swallowed hard before finally managing, "Are you feeling any better? Does it still hurt?"

Elodie shook her head, her eyes falling to where Jarrod's hand clasped hers. The moisture on her skin was clearly from his tears.

"I'm all right," she said, her voice carrying the familiar phrase she'd repeated so often it had become second nature.

The words made Jarrod tense, shoulders stiffening. He couldn't let himself dwell on how Elodie had survived those endless nights of pain on her own. She'd always been the strong one-even her grandmother and uncle had no idea. Elodie had never been the kind to complain.

her hand, but this time, Jarrod didn't let go. Instead, his grip tightened, as if he was

her. This wasn't the Jarrod

hard?" Jarrod gently brushed the tears from her hand, his voice rough with

a moment. "At first, it was. But after a while, you just... get used to it. You accept things

She'd rather wait until the final treatment, spare

ruthlessly rational. She was an adult-her problems were her own to

you needed me,

at the time, you were with someone else. Was I supposed to hope that you'd pity me, just because

why would she use her illness, or the fact that time was running out, to keep him by her side? That would have been pointless-and humiliating. If she made a scene and forced

she couldn't know what was in his heart. Every time she

only thing she could do was preserve

accusation-only the truth of how she'd felt. But they cut him

protect herself were nothing but natural. He was