After my mother passed away, I began volunteering at a hospice because I couldn’t face returning to an empty house. That’s where I met Nathan, a terminally ill man with no visitors, no emergency contact, and one final request that should have sent me walking away.
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Two years after losing my mother, I started volunteering at a small hospice just outside town.
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I told everyone I wanted to give back.
The truth was, I needed a place where grief could exist without anyone asking when I was finally going to move on.
Nathan arrived with nothing but a worn leather bag and no emergency contact on file.
That was how I met Nathan Cole.
He was fifty-nine, sharp-witted, and irritated by almost everything. He despised weak coffee. He despised daytime television. He despised nurses calling him brave.
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Most patients had flowers, framed photos, or relatives arriving with homemade meals.
Nathan had only a leather bag and no emergency contact listed.
“You remembered cream in my coffee.”
On my second shift, I brought him coffee from the café across the street.
He took a sip.
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“You remembered cream in my coffee.”
“You complained about it for twenty minutes.”
“Complaining does not guarantee anyone listens.”
A few days later, the volunteer coordinator stopped me in the hallway.
“It does when you are impossible to ignore.”
That earned the first genuine smile I ever saw from him.
A few days later, the volunteer coordinator stopped me in the hallway.
“Nathan requested you.”
“Why?”
I should have asked more questions.
“He said you remind him of someone.”
I should have asked more questions.
Instead, I started dropping by his room before heading home.
Nathan shared his life in scattered pieces. He had washed dishes, driven delivery trucks, and spent most of his years running a diner.
Whenever I asked if he had children, he always redirected the conversation.
The man held up a folder.
One afternoon, while I worked on a crossword beside his bed, a man in a dark suit appeared in the doorway.
Nathan’s expression shifted instantly.
“What do you want?”
The man held up a folder.
“Your signature.”
The man looked from my coffee to the crossword book between us.
Nathan accepted the papers without introducing either of us.
The man looked from my coffee to the crossword book between us.
For a brief second, something cold crossed his face.
“This is Eric,” Nathan said. “He handles my paperwork.”
Eric acknowledged me with a restrained nod.
I remember thinking Nathan treated him like an employee who had overstayed his welcome.
Then Nathan dismissed him without another word.
I remember thinking Nathan treated him like an employee who had overstayed his welcome.
One rainy evening, Nathan reached for my hand.
