When my father’s health began to fail, the world inside our family home grew quiet and heavy. Hospice nurses moved in and out like ghosts, their soft voices and muted footsteps blending into the steady hum of machines keeping him comfortable. I visited as often as I could, sitting by his bed, reading the paper aloud, or just holding his hand. He was tired. We both knew the end was close. But even then, he worried about us — about what would happen to the family, the house, the things that once meant everything. One afternoon, his voice cracked through…