“I’m the reason she needed a transplant,” Marcus whispered. “I’m the reason she spent her final years on dialysis.”
He had attended her funeral from afar. When he later learned that I had developed kidney disease too, he couldn’t let history repeat itself. For four years, while driving me to treatments, he was also undergoing medical testing—hoping he could become my donor.
“I took your wife’s kidneys,” he said quietly. “Now I’m giving you mine.”
I wanted to rage. To scream. To hate him for the accident that destroyed my future. But all I could see was the man who never missed a day, who held my hand when everyone else disappeared. He had been repaying his mistake long before surgery ever became an option.
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