🔴 HE WHISPERED “BUTTERFLY” AS THE DOCTOR PULLED THE SHEET OVER HER FACE
I swear the air in the room turned to ice when I heard those words.
He always called her that. Butterfly. But Mom hated butterflies. Said they were empty-headed and flitted around without purpose. She only ever liked practical things. Account ledgers. Sensible shoes. Bills paid on time.
The sterile smell of the hospital mixed with Dad’s Old Spice, making my stomach churn. He hadn’t shaved. His hand trembled as he reached for mine, and I couldn’t even bring myself to squeeze back. What kind of man calls his dying wife “butterfly,” when she despised them? Had he ever really known her at all? Was our whole family a lie?
Now he’s just staring, tears streaming down his face, not saying a word. A nurse keeps asking if we need anything but I can’t hear her over the ringing in my ears. The fluorescent lights are buzzing like angry wasps.
But then I saw it – a single dried butterfly pressed between the pages of Mom’s worn-out Bible.
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The nurse finally retreated, and the silence in the room became deafening. Dad didn’t move. He just kept staring at the sheet-covered form, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I took a shaky breath, the image of the butterfly in the Bible burned into my mind. It was a Monarch, its wings a brilliant patchwork of orange and black.
I cautiously took a step towards him, my legs heavy. “Dad,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “What was that… the butterfly?”
He flinched, as if startled from a nightmare. He looked at me, his eyes red and swollen. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a choked sob escaped. He took a deep, shuddering breath and finally said, “It was her. It was always her, my butterfly.”
“But… Mom hated butterflies,” I stammered, the pieces of the puzzle slowly, painfully, beginning to fit.
He finally reached for my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. He squeezed it and finally said, “Not the way you thought. You see, before your mother was… well, before all the practicality, before the ledgers and the bills, she was a girl who dreamed of escaping. Of flying away. I called her my butterfly then. And she did too, when we were young, when we were just beginning, before all the responsibilities.”
He paused, looking at the sheet-covered body again. “When we were building a life, we decided she needed wings… something beautiful, not just practical. We had a deal – that every time he looked at a bill, she would pick a butterfly from her favorite books and press it in the bible, to remind her of her dreams, of the freedom she gave up so she could start a family with me.”
My breath hitched. I thought about the sensible shoes, the perfectly organized life. I remembered the quiet disappointment in her eyes, the occasional wistful glance out the window.
He continued, his voice barely audible. “I knew she was dying, when she asked me to make sure I never stopped calling her my butterfly even when she was no longer here. Because, her greatest wish was for me to remember the girl, not the mom.”
He pulled himself up, and took my hand, “Let’s go see, my little butterfly. Let’s remember that girl again. ”
We walked to the bedroom, where her Bible was. The dried butterfly fluttered to the floor as we reached out, carefully moving the book. It was a Monarch Butterfly, the only one, between her most beloved scripture. The other pages were blank.