Chapter 58
"Tell me about the stars again, Grandpa Franklin," five-month-old Charlotte babbled in her own baby language, reaching for the twinkling lights Emma had strung around Franklin's hospital bed at home.
Franklin's weathered hand, now so thin the veins stood out like roadmaps, gently caught Charlotte's tiny fingers. "Those aren't just lights, little princess," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Those are all the dreams your great-great-grandmother and I shared. Each one burns for you now."
Emma sat in the chair beside his bed, seven-week-old Frankie sleeping against her chest, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. Three weeks had passed since their decision to move to New York, but Franklin's condition had deteriorated so rapidly that travel was now impossible. Instead, they'd converted the mansion's sunroom into a makeshift hospice, filling it with everything that brought him joy—family photos, fresh flowers, and most importantly, his great-grandchildren.
"The blue star there," Franklin continued, pointing a trembling finger at a sapphire-colored light, "that one's for all the hockey games you'll play someday. I can see you already, Charlotte—fierce as your great-grandmother, smart as your mother, with a slap shot that'll make grown men weep."
"Grandpa," Emma said softly, "save your energy."
"For what?" Franklin asked with a ghost of his old humor. "I'm dying, Emmy. The least I can do is spend my last breaths telling these babies who they come from."
Alek entered quietly, carrying a tea service that had become their evening ritual. Even knowing Franklin could barely manage a few sips, the ceremony of preparing his favorite Earl Grey gave them all something to focus on besides the monitors that showed his heart struggling with each beat.
"How are we tonight?" Alek asked, settling beside Emma and automatically reaching to support baby Frankie's head as Emma adjusted her position.
"Franklin's been telling Charlotte about the stars," Emma explained, watching her grandfather's eyes follow Alek's gentle movements with the baby.
"And what about young Franklin here?" the elderly man asked, nodding toward his namesake. "What does his star say?"
Alek leaned closer so Franklin could see the sleeping infant clearly. "What do you see in him, Grandpa?"
Franklin studied the baby's peaceful face with an intensity that seemed to drain his limited energy. "I see a boy who'll ask hard questions and demand honest answers. I see someone who'll fight for what's right, even when it's not popular." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I see the best of both his parents, and the stubborn Mitchell spirit that's kept our family strong for four generations."
Charlotte had grown fussy in her portable crib, and Emma reached to lift her, but Franklin shook his head weakly.
"Let me," he insisted. "Please."
With Alek's careful assistance, they positioned Charlotte in Franklin's arms, supporting his weakened limbs. The baby immediately calmed, staring up at her great-grandfather with the serious expression that had become her trademark.
"She knows," Franklin said with wonder. "Look at those eyes. She knows exactly who I am."
"Of course she does," Emma whispered. "You've been singing to her since the day she was born."
Franklin had indeed developed a ritual of soft lullabies during visits—old songs his own mother had sung to him, passed down through generations of Mitchells. His voice was too weak for singing now, but he hummed a few bars of "Danny Boy," Charlotte's favorite.
The baby's eyes grew heavy, and Franklin looked up at Emma with an expression of profound peace.
"I need you to promise me something," he said urgently.
"Anything," Emma replied immediately.
"Promise me you'll tell them stories. Real stories, not sanitized fairy tales. Tell them about your great-grandmother Eleanor, who built a business empire when women weren't supposed to have bank accounts. Tell them about your father, who died too young but lived fully. Tell them about me—the mistakes I made and the lessons I learned."
"I promise," Emma said, her voice breaking.
"And promise me," Franklin continued, his gaze moving to include Alek, "that you'll let them make their own mistakes. Don't protect them from failure. Let them fall down and get back up. That's how Mitchells become strong."
"We promise," Alek said solemnly.
Franklin nodded, satisfied, then looked down at Charlotte one more time. "Your turn to hold the family legacy now, little one. But don't worry—you won't be alone. All of us who came before will be cheering you on."
As if understanding the weight of his words, Charlotte reached up and grasped Franklin's finger with surprising strength for such a tiny hand.
"That's my girl," Franklin smiled, tears sliding down his cheeks. "Already got a Mitchell grip."
Dr. Singh appeared in the doorway, making her evening rounds. She checked Franklin's vitals silently, her expression confirming what they all knew—his time was measured in days, perhaps hours.
"Pain level?" she asked gently.
"Manageable," Franklin lied, the same response he'd given for weeks. Emma suspected he was refusing stronger medication to stay alert for these precious moments with his great-grandchildren.
After the doctor left, Franklin insisted on holding baby Frankie as well, marveling at the differences between the siblings even at their young ages.
"Charlotte's a thinker," he observed. "See how she studies everything? But this little man—he feels everything deeply. Look at how he responds to voices, to touch. He's going to be the family's heart, while she's the mind."
"What does that make me?" Emma asked, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
"The bridge between them," Franklin replied without hesitation. "The one who helps them understand that thinking and feeling aren't opposites—they're partners."
As the evening wore on, Franklin's energy visibly declined, but he refused to let anyone take the babies away.
"Not yet," he insisted when Emma suggested they should let him rest. "Let me have tonight. Please."
So they created a cocoon around Franklin's bed—Emma and Alek taking turns holding babies, adjusting pillows, bringing water Franklin couldn't drink. Walter hovered nearby, ready to assist but understanding that these hours belonged to family alone.
"Sing to them," Franklin requested as his eyes grew heavy. "The lullaby your grandmother taught you."
Emma's voice was shaky at first, but she found strength in the familiar melody:
"Sleep now, my darling, the day is done,
Dream of tomorrow and morning sun.
Angels watch over you through the night,
Until you wake to the morning light."
Franklin's breathing grew more peaceful as she sang, his hands never leaving the babies even as consciousness began to fade.
"That's perfect," he whispered. "Just like Eleanor used to sing it."
"Tell me about her," Emma said, desperate to keep him talking, to hold onto these last lucid moments.
"Strongest woman I ever knew," Franklin replied, eyes still closed but a smile playing at his lips. "Used to say that love wasn't something you felt—it was something you did, every single day, even when you didn't want to."
He opened his eyes one more time, looking directly at Emma and Alek.
"That's what you two have built. Not just romance, but the daily choice to love each other through everything life throws at you. Don't ever stop choosing each other."
As midnight approached, Franklin's breathing became more labored, but he held on, unwilling to let go while the babies were still in his arms.
"Grandpa," Emma said softly, "it's okay. We're here. We'll take care of them."
"I know you will," Franklin whispered. "You're the best of all of us, Emmy. And these babies... they're going to change the world."
He closed his eyes again, and for a moment Emma thought he'd fallen asleep. But then he spoke one more time, his voice barely audible:
"Tell them I was proud. Tell them their great-grandfather believed in them before they even knew who they were."
The room fell quiet except for the soft sounds of sleeping babies and the steady beep of monitors. Franklin's breathing grew shallow but remained steady, as if he was determined to see one more sunrise with his great-grandchildren.
Emma and Alek maintained their vigil through the night, taking turns holding babies and stroking Franklin's hand, whispering words of love and gratitude for everything he'd given them.
As dawn broke through the sunroom windows, painting everything in soft gold light, Franklin's eyes opened one final time. He looked at each of them—Emma, Alek, Charlotte, baby Frankie—with an expression of absolute contentment.
"Thank you," he breathed. "For letting an old man see the future of our family."
And then, surrounded by four generations of love, Franklin Mitchell closed his eyes and prepared to say goodbye.