She Asked Me If This Was Her Last Meal—And I Didn’t Know How to Answer

I wheeled her out just after lunch, when the nurses were busy and the sun finally broke through the clouds. She hadn’t been outside in days. Maybe weeks.

Her coat barely fit anymore, too loose around the shoulders, but she still looked like her—my Lucie.

She didn’t say much. Just held my hand the whole way down the ramp, her grip as light as the breeze. I had the pudding tucked in my coat pocket the way she used to sneak candy into movie theaters.

It was that lemon mousse she always loved. From the bakery near our old apartment—the one with the grumpy baker who eventually learned our names.

I fed her the first bite slowly. She closed her eyes like it was a memory, not a dessert.

“That’s the good stuff,” she said, smiling faintly.

I chuckled, but my throat caught.

She took another bite. Then another. And then, halfway through, she looked up at me and asked it—so softly I almost pretended I didn’t hear:

“Is this my last meal?”

I froze.

I wanted to say no. To say we’d come back next week, same spot, and I’d bring the raspberry one she liked too. I wanted to promise a thousand more bites and lazy afternoons and mornings where I didn’t check the monitor every hour.

But I couldn’t say any of that.

So I just squeezed her hand and said, “Only if you’re full.”

She gave me a tired little smile.

And then, still holding my hand, she whispered— “I need to tell you the truth about William.”

The name hit me like cold water. I hadn’t heard it in years, but it was carved somewhere deep inside me. William. My brother.

Lucie had never spoken of him in more than passing comments. Just little things—like how he always smelled like fresh laundry or how he could beat anyone at chess, even tipsy.

They’d only met a handful of times before he moved to Canada. That’s what I always believed. What she let me believe.

“What about him?” I asked, not even trying to keep my voice steady.

Lucie looked up at the sky like it might help her find the right words. “That year you and I split up, after your father died… I didn’t just stay with my sister.”

I already knew where this was going, but I needed to hear it. Even if it splintered me in two.

“I went to see William,” she said. “I was so angry at you. At everything. He was kind. Familiar. He said all the right things. And I stayed longer than I meant to.”

I nodded slowly, my stomach tightening. “Did something happen?”

She blinked hard, her eyes watery. “Yes. It wasn’t just one night. It went on for a few months. But it ended the moment I saw your name flash on his phone. You had called him, remember?”

I did remember. I had needed to talk to someone—anyone. It was two in the morning.

“I was going to tell you,” she said, her voice cracking. “But then your mom got sick. And then we got back together. And it all felt too fragile to shake.”

My hand slipped away from hers without meaning to.

I wasn’t angry—yet. I was stunned. Hollow.

“Was that why he moved to Canada?” I asked.

She nodded. “He couldn’t face you. And I asked him to leave. I couldn’t bear to see the guilt in both your faces every time we were in the same room.”

I leaned back in the bench, breathing slowly, trying to piece together a puzzle that had been in front of me all along. William had pulled away from me so quietly. I’d chalked it up to distance and adulthood.

“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered. “But you deserved to know.”

“Why now?” I asked.

Lucie smiled sadly. “Because the truth should be what’s left behind. Not secrets.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to shout. Another part wanted to curl up next to her like we used to do after long, hard days.

Instead, I stood and walked a few steps toward the garden. The lilacs were just starting to bloom.

We sat in silence for a long while.

Then, softly, I asked, “Did you love him?”

She shook her head. “No. I was lost. And he was your mirror. I confused comfort with love.”

The sun moved across the sky while we said nothing. Just the sound of the wind and the occasional chirp of a bird kept us company.

Finally, I pulled the spoon from my pocket and fed her the last few bites. Her hands were cold now, and her eyelids drooped between spoonfuls.

That night, I barely slept. I kept replaying her words, the years we’d shared, the hollow spaces in between.

In the morning, I came back early. Lucie was asleep, an oxygen tube tracing her cheeks like spiderwebs. She looked peaceful, but her breathing was shallow.

I sat beside her, holding her hand again, and started reading that old poetry book she liked—the one with the dog-eared pages and coffee stains.

Around noon, the nurse came in and gently shook her head.

Lucie was gone.

I went home in a daze. The apartment felt colder than usual. Her slippers were still by the door. Her scarf on the chair. Everything looked the same, but nothing was.

I found myself scrolling through old pictures, our smiles framed by holidays and birthdays and boring Tuesdays. And then I saw it—a photo of the three of us at the beach. Me, Lucie, and William.

She was between us, laughing, her hair wild in the wind.

I stared at it for hours.

The next day, I did something I hadn’t done in over a decade. I called my brother.

He answered after three rings.

“Hey,” I said.

There was silence on the line. Then a cautious, “Is everything okay?”

“She’s gone,” I told him.

A pause. Then a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

“She told me everything,” I added.

He didn’t deny it. Just sighed. “I wanted to tell you too. Every day. But I was a coward.”

“You were my best friend,” I said. “And she was my heart.”

“I know.”

And for the first time, we both cried. Not out of anger, but because of all we’d lost by staying silent.

I flew to see him a week later. We talked for hours—about Lucie, about our childhood, about that broken year we both tried to pretend never happened.

He had two kids now. A wife named Amara who made the best tea I’d ever had. His son looked like him, but had Lucie’s laugh. I didn’t tell him that.

Forgiveness didn’t come all at once. It trickled in slowly, like spring after a long winter.

One afternoon, his boy asked me, “Did you know my dad when he was young?”

I smiled. “Yeah. He was my hero.”

The words surprised even me, but they were true.

I stayed a month.

By the time I left, the ache in my chest was different. Softer. Like a scar instead of a wound.

Back home, I planted a lemon tree in Lucie’s favorite park. The kind with thick blossoms and fruit that never really sweetens.

I visit it often.

Sometimes I bring a pudding cup and sit by it, watching people pass by. No one knows what it means but me.

And that’s okay.

Some truths need to be spoken. Others, just remembered.

Lucie was right. Secrets weigh more than honesty ever will.

Loving someone means letting them see the cracks. And forgiving someone—really forgiving—means choosing peace over pride.

So if someone you love is holding back, ask. Gently, kindly, but ask.

And if you’ve been the one keeping quiet, maybe today’s the day to speak.

Because sometimes, the bravest thing we can do isn’t to fight or to flee—but to forgive.

Thanks for reading. If this story touched you, share it with someone who needs a little light today—and don’t forget to like it if it moved you.