I followed him into the hallway, my heart racing. “You’re really going to let him die?” I asked.
He snapped back, “Easy for you to say. You don’t have kids. Or a career to protect.”
Something in me broke loose. “Neither did he,” I shouted after him, “when he raised you on his own for years.”
Mark didn’t turn around.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Memories flooded in — Richard jogging behind me as I learned to ride a bike, arms outstretched, laughing when I fell into the grass. Richard sitting in the front row of my school plays when my mom couldn’t leave work. Richard, awkward and quiet, but always present.
By morning, my decision was clear.
The test results came back quickly. I was a match.
When I told the doctor, he looked surprised. When I told Mark, he looked relieved. He didn’t thank me.
The surgery took place two days later. As they rolled me toward the operating room, the fear finally caught up with me. I wasn’t courageous. I was terrified. But beneath the fear was something deeper — the feeling that this was unfinished. That love doesn’t vanish just because years pass without words.
When I woke up, pain radiated sharply through my side. The room slowly came into focus. A nurse smiled and told me the transplant had been successful. Richard was stable.
Hours passed before they allowed me to see him.
He looked smaller than I remembered. Frailer. Surrounded by tubes and monitors, yet breathing steadily. His eyes opened slowly when I stepped closer.
I held my breath.
He didn’t ask for his son.
He didn’t ask what had happened.
He looked directly at me and smiled — a genuine, gentle smile I hadn’t seen in years.
“I’ve missed you, my little girl,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “How have you been?”
Something inside me collapsed.
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