My father-in-law had no pension, and for twelve years I looked after him with everything I had. As he took his final breath, he pressed a torn pillow into my hands. When I opened it, I broke down in tears.

Once, during an especially difficult night, I finally broke and whispered:
“Robert, I’m just your daughter-in-law… sometimes it feels too heavy for me.”
He didn’t lecture me or cry. Instead, he gave me a soft smile, took my trembling hand, and said:
“I know. That’s why I’m grateful. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t still be here.”
I never forgot those words. From that moment on, I promised myself that I would make his remaining years as peaceful as I could. I bought him thick blankets when it grew cold. I cooked soups when his stomach hurt. When his feet swelled, I massaged them gently.
I never once thought about what he might leave behind. I cared for him because, in my heart, he had already become a father to me.

The Last Moment
As time passed, Robert grew even weaker. At 85, the doctor gently told us that his heart wouldn’t hold on much longer. In his final days, he often asked me to sit beside him so he could tell stories from his youth—stories of fishing by the river, of love lost, of raising children with nothing but his hands and hope. He kept reminding me that his greatest wish was for his children and grandchildren to live with dignity.
Then, one quiet afternoon, the moment came.
With heavy breaths, he reached for me and handed me an old pillow—its edges frayed, fabric worn thin. His voice shook as he whispered:
“For… Hannah…”
I held the pillow tightly, not understanding. Minutes later, he closed his eyes for the last time.

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