He was with her when she went. He was holding her hand, the way he always figured he would.
It was very peaceful when the doctor turned off the machines. He sat by her side, their daughter at the foot of her bed, weeping quietly into a tissue. She said her goodbyes very weakly, squeezed Amon's hand, smiled at their daughter, and breathed out.
Amon sighed once, when she went.
"Don't worry, Dad," his daughter told him. "If the house gets too big for you alone, I have room."
He nodded and reached for his walker.
Women survive their men, men don't survive their women, he'd heard.
When he let go of her hand, he knew it was true.