Chapter 19 - NO MORE INSTRUCTIONS

Hospice asked if I wanted to record messages. No. Then: “Letters?” Already enough.

Then: “Funeral wishes?” Basic. Small.

No public retelling.

No family-business case study.

Then I caught myself. Instruction.

Then changed wording:

“I prefer no public retelling. Use your judgment.” Better.

Then Luke: “Do you want me to invite anyone from nonprofit?”

If you want.

Then: “Naomi’s family?” No relationship.

Then: “Kathleen’s relatives?”

Maybe Rachel gone; other family maybe. Luke could.

Then: “Do you want Austin’s ashes?” Not mine. No. Then: “Okay.”

Then I asked:

“Do you think I’m being difficult?” “Yes.” We laughed.

Then one hospice social worker asked:

“What are you proud of?” Hard.

Then: “My business.” Good.

Then: “My no.” Also.

Then: “Your family?” Some. Then: “Austin.” His change. Then: “Mom?”

Her final medical choices. Then: “Dad?”

His foresight mixed with flaws. Then: “Kathleen?” Friendship. Then: “Naomi?”

The fact she stopped trying to force forgiveness. Interesting. Then: “Yourself?” I thought.

“I learned to let people leave.” There.

Then: “Anyone you wish stayed?” Many.

Then: “Same thing?” No.

Then I became weaker.

One evening, Luke brought chocolate cake. Small slice. “No birthday.” “I know.” Then: “Why?”

“You like cake.” Exactly.

I ate three bites. Then: “Good?” “Yes.”

Then he held flowers? No need.

Then: “Can I ask something?” “Yes.”

“Do you wish you’d married?” I laughed. Then: “Sometimes.” Then: “Regret?” No.

Then: “Do you wish you had kids?” Sometimes. Then: “Regret?” No.

A life can contain unchosen possibilities without being failure.

Then: “Do you wish Austin never met Naomi?” Yes.

Then I stopped.

Maybe he learned through pain, but bad not necessary. “Yes.”

Then: “Even though you met Kathleen?” “Yes.”

Good things after bad not justify bad.

Then: “Do you wish Mom never hired Naomi?” Yes.

Then: “Do you wish Dad never took Ross warrant?” Probably.

Then: “Would your life be different?” Yes.

Then: “Maybe better?” Maybe.

No gratitude for harm.

Then social worker asked:

“Any unfinished business?” No.

Then: “Are you sure?” I smiled.

“There will always be something unfinished.”

Then: “Does that bother?” Less.

Then I dreamed about birthday apartment.

Austin raised tire iron.

In dream I did not grab pot.

Instead the scene froze.

I stood up. Walked out.

Impossible in real moment. But dream.

Then Mom called: “Come back.”

I said: “No.”

Then door closed. I woke. No triumph.

Then I remembered real sequence.

I had grabbed copper pot. Yes.

I had hit Austin’s forearm.

Knocked tire iron away.

Then I said: “She was already somebody else’s wife.”

That action had gotten lost in retelling because documents became central.

But my body had protected itself first.

I wanted story file to include? This is fiction, but yes.

Then I told Luke:

“I hit him with a pot.” He laughed. “I know.”

Then: “Why is that funny?”

“Because Austin told me you had terrible aim.” I stared.

Then laughed until coughing.

Then: “He said you barely got forearm.” Good.

Then: “He was proud you fought back?” Later, yes.

That made me cry.

Then: “He said he deserved worse.” Maybe.

Then: “Did he?” No need.

Then I thought of original clang. Tire iron.

Then copper impact. Then secret. Then Kathleen.

One minute changed decades.

Then: “Do you want people to know?” No.

Then: “Can I tell if someone asks?” Your judgment. Good.

Then I stopped giving instructions. Literally.

For one day, every question from Luke:

“What do you want done with…”

I said: “You choose.”

Then he got annoyed.

“I need some instructions.” We laughed.

Then practical items. Yes.

Consent is not absence of structure.

It is involvement.

So I answered what truly required me. Cremation.

Ocean? No scattering due rules perhaps. Memorial garden. Personal items. Bank.

Then left rest.

Then I signed final hospice forms. Slow.

Then: “Did you read?” Yes.

Then: “Do you understand?” Yes. Then signature. Monica Wellman.

My own hand.

Then pen down.

No one touched it.

Then I looked at Luke. “Done.”

He said: “Done.”

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And for first time, that word did not sound like something ending under pressure.

It sounded complete.