I placed the knife down on the counter and held out my hands. Garrett handed me the vase and I smiled as I looked down at it. A sad smile, a smile that told me that I was doing the right thing. I took a deep breath and held what was left of my son closely to my chest, my eyes closed for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to Scott.
In quick movements, I placed the vase down on top of the island, pulled the lid off and looked at the ashes deep inside for a moment. Then I grabbed the knife and dragged it as deeply as I could across my throat. My hope was to get some of what was left of the last few moments of my life in with my son’s ashes. In a sense, this way I would have finally been with him.
The feeling of the cool blade burned slightly and I had to tug it across after I somehow managed to get it stuck in the front of my neck.
I heard Garrett’s horrified scream as I fell over, and I could feel the choking feeling take over me as the light from the world started fading again.
But it was over now; I could feel it as the cold washed over me. And I would look my best when I saw my grandfather, and possibly my son, for the first time.
Frances Lettsworth, aged eighty-four, the greatest man I had ever known, died on a Friday not seven days before. I could only hope he knew in his heart that I had done this for him.
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