AN END

Two days before she died, Mom slipped into a coma. Quan mentioned it was common for patients at this stage, but hearing that didn’t make it any easier. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her eyes barely opening, and when they did, they looked empty—like she was already halfway gone. It was as if her body was here, but her soul had started its journey somewhere else.

I stayed by her side, my hand resting on her chest, feeling the faint rise and fall with every shallow breath. I didn’t need anyone to tell me; I knew her time was running out. And in a strange, twisted way, I felt like we were both waiting for the same thing—an end. Any end.

Then it happened.

Her chest stopped moving. Just like that, her breaths were gone. She died right there, beneath my hand.