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Audrey Hepburn's two sons each had their own lives and responsibilities, so after a brief stay they departed again—but not without urging Henry to call them immediately if anything changed.
Better to worry about missing something than to complain later about a wasted trip.
Their words revealed what everyone already knew in their hearts: the inevitable was near. No one spoke it aloud, but the truth hung unspoken in the air.
One unexpected figure, however, stayed behind—Jean Grey, the "Phoenix."
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Early in the morning, Henry was out shoveling snow, watching Jean in the yard being swarmed by five Jack Russell terriers. Or perhaps it was the other way around—she played with them while they attacked with boundless energy. Either way, Henry could only sigh.
These five little fools… do they not realize they could be turned into barbecue in a heartbeat?
"What rude thought are you having?" Jean suddenly asked.
"Nothing! Nothing at all!" Henry answered defensively. Then, remembering who she was, he admitted sheepishly: "I was just thinking—it's really a blessing you decided to stay and help."
That much was true. Caring for a woman meant there were things Henry himself wasn't suited to do. Robert, Audrey's lifelong companion, was there too, but he was already nearing sixty. Some tasks were beyond him, and one accident could leave both patient and caregiver injured.
Jean's presence filled that gap perfectly.
Knowing how valuable she was, Phoenix declared with pride: "Back at the school, I handled logistics and medical support all the time. This is nothing for me."
"Right." Henry didn't argue—he just avoided the topic and finished his work. With the last stroke of his shovel, a snow sculpture stood proudly in the yard: Snoopy, lifelike and cheerful.
Jean was amazed. Yesterday he had shaped the Genie from Aladdin, the day before Garfield. If she had known that before Audrey's relapse Henry had been recreating masterpieces of classical sculpture, she might have thought differently.
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And so the days slipped by, quiet and simple. Henry practiced piano, spent afternoons reading. Most often he read aloud—love stories, as he had once promised Audrey, one a day, drawn from a thousand cultures. He read in the original languages, translated, explained the contexts, polished the words, and recorded them.
Jean found herself enjoying it as much as Audrey. As the actress herself had once said: no matter her age, a woman never tires of love stories.
The final countdown passed in this calm rhythm, until January 19th, when Audrey slipped once again into an unnatural sleep.
Henry called her sons: "The time may have come. Please hurry back."
The next day Sean Ferrer and Luca Dotti returned to the family home in Tolochenaz, Switzerland, accompanied by a family doctor and nurse. They set up monitors—heart rate, simple machines.
Everyone had braced themselves for this moment, so the atmosphere wasn't as taut as one might expect. Even so, those who didn't smoke took it up; those who already did smoked far more than usual—nearly cramming whole packs into their mouths at once.
Wine was sipped sparingly. No one wanted to dull themselves in drunkenness.
Most of the time they stayed close to Audrey's bedside, the television murmuring in the background—the only sound besides the machines' steady beeping.
The news happened to mention her: in December of the previous year, President George H.W. Bush had awarded her the U.S. Presidential Medal of Freedom. Too ill to travel, the medal had been accepted on her behalf and later delivered to Switzerland.
Another story told of Mother Teresa, who, upon hearing of Audrey's condition, had urged nuns worldwide to pray through the night for her miraculous recovery. Prayers rose across the globe—though whether the event was exploited for publicity, none in that room cared to ask.
On the evening of January 20th, the family doctor declared Audrey Hepburn dead and switched off the machines.
Grief filled the room. Robert, her life companion, and her sons Sean and Luca wept.
Henry, Jean, and the household staff stood at the edges. Many sobbed quietly. Employers like her—kind, gentle, empathetic—were rare treasures.
No one was untouched by sorrow. Even Jean, who had known her only days, was swept into its tide.
Only Henry remained composed—eerily so. Yet at such times, someone steady was needed, so others could surrender fully to their grief.
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On January 24th, Audrey Hepburn's funeral was held in the church at Tolochenaz, officiated by Pastor Maurice Eindiguer—the same man who had married Audrey and Mel Ferrer in 1960 and baptized their sons.
Many friends and loved ones attended: her two children, Robert Wolders, her half-brother Ian Quarles van Ufford, her ex-husbands Mel Ferrer and Andrea Dotti.
Her dearest friend Hubert de Givenchy was of course present, as were senior UNICEF officials. From Hollywood came French legend Alain Delon, and Roger Moore—the second James Bond. Gregory Peck, her co-star in Roman Holiday, sent flowers, as did Elizabeth Taylor and the Dutch royal family.
UNICEF's Agakhan Saludeen Khan delivered the eulogy.
Six men bore the casket—those who had mattered most in her life: Givenchy, Mel Ferrer, Andrea Dotti, Robert Wolders, Sean Ferrer, and Luca Dotti.
Six men walking in harmony, carrying the same beloved woman on her final journey—that image said everything. In the end, a life is judged by moments such as this.
Audrey Hepburn was laid to rest in the cemetery at Tolochenaz. Her sixty-three years on this earth had come to an end.
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