The truth.

The day before he died, my Dad was bedridden, delirious, anxious.


What’s next? He’d ask.
Why don’t you rest, and we will figure it out a bit later?
Yes, he’d say. I'm so tired.
What’s next? He’d ask in a panic ten minutes later. What’s next?
Why don’t you take a short nap and we will take it from there?

After hours of this, my brother came into the room.

What's next?
What's next, Pedro says, is that you are going to die.

My father, despite severe dementia, looked right at him and nodded.

Even when it’s terrible, there is nothing like the truth.