She told me she’d been waiting for a transplant for almost two years.
At first, I just thought of her as another kid stuck in the same place I was.
Then I started noticing her mom.
My throat tightened.
She sits in waiting rooms like you do.
Then I started noticing her mom.
She watches every doctor’s face before they even start talking.
She brings coffee and forgets to drink it.
One day I realized I wasn’t just looking at her.
I was looking at us.
I wiped my eyes.
One day I realized I wasn’t just looking at her.
That’s when I asked Dad to help me find out if I could directly donate one of my organs to Sophie. He helped me ask questions and go through the paperwork.
Dad told me to tell you.
I closed my eyes.
I said no.
It’s not because I trusted him more.
Dad told me to tell you.
It’s because you were still talking about me coming home.
The words blurred.
I remembered all the times I’d said it to her: “When you come home.”
“When you’re better.”
And the way she’d smiled politely while looking at me so gently.
I remembered all the times I’d said it to her
I knew you needed that hope.
And I couldn’t make you sit beside me while also waiting to find out whether another girl might live because I died.
I pressed the paper against my chest.
That was why she’d kept this secret.
That was why she’d kept this secret.
Not because Mary had shut me out.
Because she had known me too well.
Then came the lines that broke me.
I couldn’t go home with you, Mom.
But I hoped I could help Sophie go home with hers.
I covered my mouth to stop the sound that came out.
Then came the lines that broke me.
At the bottom, Mary had written:
Please don’t be too angry with Dad.
He hated keeping this from you.
I made him promise.
I love you.
Mary
