The bedside I left too early.

My father was dying slowly, not all at once. The kind of drawn-out leaving where people say, 'There's still time.' I visited after work, sat beside him, talked about ordinary things because the real ones felt too big. One evening he squeezed my hand and asked me to stay a little longer. I told him I was tired, that I'd come back the next day. I kissed his forehead and left while he was still awake. He died an hour later. Everyone tells me I couldn't have known. But I did know there was a chance. I just chose sleep over witness.