I never forgot those words. They became a guiding light for me. From that moment, I promised myself I would make his final years as comfortable as possible. I bought him extra blankets when the nights grew cold. I made soups when his stomach hurt. I massaged his swollen feet with care. I never thought about what he might leave behind because, in my heart, he had already become a father to me.
As Robert grew older, his strength diminished further. By the time he reached eighty-five, his doctor gently told us that his heart would not last much longer. During his final weeks, he often asked me to sit beside him so he could share memories from his youth. He spoke of fishing by the river, of loves he had lost, and of raising children with nothing but his own hands and determination. He reminded me over and over that his greatest hope was for his children and grandchildren to live with dignity.
One quiet afternoon, he reached out and handed me an old, worn pillow. “For… Savannah,” he whispered, his voice trembling. I held the pillow, unsure what it meant. Minutes later, he closed his eyes for the last time.