I moved to Seattle from Berkeley four months before my dad died from cancer.
I would have stayed. I was unattached to place, work, or romance. I very well could have stayed. I knew he was dying. But he, being the fighter until the end that he always was, couldn’t accept my offer. He couldn’t accept the idea of me sleeping in the guest bedroom to hear him better at night. Nor could he accept me doing what needed to be done in the new quiet way that was so unlike me. It would have made it real, and he wasn’t there yet. He never did make it there.