“He’s still her father,” she countered tentatively.
“He stopped being that a long time ago,” I said, quickly shutting down her train of thought.
My sister didn’t mention him again.
Then, one Tuesday in March, the call came.
“Should we try to contact him?”
***
I was folding laundry when my phone rang.
It was the hospital.
For a second, I just stared at it. Bad news had started using that number so often that seeing it made my stomach hurt.
I answered anyway.
“Sarah?”
It was Dr. Smith.
“Yes?”
There was a pause.
Then she said the words I’d stopped believing I’d ever hear.
“We found a donor.”
Everything inside me went still.
For a second, I just stared at it.
“What?” I whispered.
“We found a living donor outside the usual waiting list who matched Emma. He came through a special transplant program.”
I sank onto the floor, and the towel slipped from my hands.
“What does that mean?”
“He came forward on his own and completed testing through the transplant program. He’s a match for your daughter, but he’s insisted on complete anonymity. No contact before surgery. None afterward.”
I almost asked why.
Then I stopped myself.
I sank onto the floor.
You don’t ask questions when your child is being handed back to you. You say yes and cry later.
“When?” I whispered.
“Next Thursday.”
“Okay, thank you, Doc.”
I didn’t even let her finish. I would have agreed if she’d told me the surgery was taking place on the moon!
For the first time in two years, hope felt dangerous.
***
The surgery worked! I repeated those three words so often they became a prayer!
Emma came home with color in her cheeks again, a warmth I had almost forgotten her face could hold.
I didn’t even let her finish.
For the first time in forever, my daughter did not have the exhausted gray look I’d gotten used to seeing.
She ate real meals, laughed, and complained about chores!
