The nurse looked up from my grandfather’s chart just as my phone started vibrating.

“Is there anyone else coming today?” she asked.

I glanced toward the hallway. Every chair outside Arthur Wheeler’s room was empty except for mine.

“No,” I said. “It’s just me.”

She nodded like she’d expected that answer.

Grandpa had been in St. Luke’s Medical Center for nine days after suffering a massive heart attack. The doctors said he’d survived something most eighty-two-year-olds wouldn’t.

My father visited once.

My mother stopped by for twenty minutes.

My older brother never came at all.

They all had reasons.

Dad said he was too busy keeping Wheeler Industrial running.

Mom said hospitals made her anxious.

Mason texted that Grandpa wouldn’t know whether he was there anyway.

So every morning before work, I stopped at the hospital. Every evening after work, I came back. I paid Grandpa’s bills when he couldn’t reach his reading glasses. I answered doctors’ questions. I made sure someone brushed his hair because he hated looking untidy.

The only chair that stayed warm in that room was mine.

One afternoon Grandpa opened his eyes while I was adjusting the blanket over his legs.

“Claire.”

His voice was weak but steady.

I leaned closer.

“I’m here.”

He studied my face for a long moment.

“You haven’t missed a day.”

I smiled.

“Neither have you.”

That made him laugh, though it quickly turned into a cough.

After the nurse left, he looked toward the doorway before lowering his voice.

“Do you think your father loves me?”

The question caught me off guard.

“I think he does,” I answered carefully. “People show it differently.”

Grandpa slowly shook his head.

“No. People hide it differently.”

He reached for the bedside table.

His phone was lying beside a pair of folded reading glasses.

“I want to know the truth before I die.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

Grandpa had built Wheeler Industrial from a two-car garage outside Columbus nearly fifty years earlier. My father had spent decades assuming he’d eventually inherit complete control.

Lately, every conversation Dad had with Grandpa somehow drifted toward retirement plans, ownership shares, or estate paperwork.

Grandpa noticed.

He always noticed.

He simply hadn’t said much.

Until now.

He picked up his phone and held it toward me.

“Help me make three calls.”

I frowned.

“Calls?”

“Tell them I passed away.”

I stared at him.

“Grandpa…”

“Not forever.”

A faint smile crossed his face.

“Just for ten minutes.”

The Phone Stayed on Speaker

I hated the idea.

I argued with him for nearly fifteen minutes.

He listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he asked one question.

“If they truly love me, what harm can ten minutes do?”

I looked at the phone again.

Then at Grandpa.

Finally I sighed.

“You’ll hear everything.”

He nodded once.

I called my father first.

The phone rang twice.

“Claire?”

His voice sounded rushed.

I swallowed.

“Dad…”

I let silence hang for a second.

“Grandpa passed away about twenty minutes ago.”

Nothing.

Not crying.

Not shock.

Just one long exhale.

Then—

“At least he isn’t suffering anymore.”

His voice sounded lighter than it had all week.

He didn’t ask how Grandpa died.

He didn’t ask whether I’d been alone.

Instead he asked,

“Did the attorney already arrive?”

I stared at the speakerphone.

Grandpa closed his eyes.

I answered quietly.

“No.”

“Call me as soon as anyone mentions the will.”

The line disconnected.

Neither of us spoke.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

Grandpa reached over and folded his reading glasses without saying a word.

I called my mother next.

She answered almost immediately.

“Claire? Is everything okay?”

I repeated the same sentence.

“Grandpa died twenty minutes ago.”

She gasped.

For a moment I thought I’d been wrong.

Then she asked,

“Did he ever finish updating his estate documents?”

I looked toward Grandpa.

His eyes stayed on the ceiling.

I could hear my own heartbeat.

“Mom?”

“I’m only asking because your father said he was changing things recently.”

She lowered her voice.

“You should check before anyone else gets involved.”

I ended the call.

Grandpa still hadn’t moved.

The only sound in the room came from a heart monitor in the hallway.

Not his.

Someone else’s.

I almost suggested stopping there.

Two calls felt like enough.

Grandpa slowly lifted one finger.

One more.

My Brother Started Laughing

Mason answered with music playing somewhere behind him.

“Hey, Claire.”

He sounded cheerful.

Too cheerful.

I repeated the sentence for the third time.

“Grandpa passed away.”

There was silence.

Then—

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

“Seriously?”

I didn’t answer.

“Well…”

Another laugh.

“Looks like everything finally belongs where it should.”

My grip tightened around the phone.

He kept talking.

“Dad gets control of the company, I get my shares, and maybe this family can finally stop pretending Grandpa was ever going back to work.”

Grandpa slowly reached toward me.

His hand wasn’t shaking anymore.

He held out his palm.

I placed the phone in it.

He pressed Speaker a little closer.

Then, in a calm voice that sounded far stronger than it had all week, he said,

“That’s interesting, Mason.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

A loud thud echoed through the speaker.

It sounded like someone had dropped their phone.

Grandpa continued.

“I’m relieved to know exactly what my death is worth to you.”

Nobody answered.

After several long seconds, Mason whispered,

“…Grandpa?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Then hurried breathing.

“I—I thought—Claire said—”

“Claire said what I asked her to say.”