His agreement somehow made me angrier.
“Stop saying that!”
“I’m not arguing because you’re right.”
“I knew you’d refuse.”
I laughed.
“You think a kidney makes up for time lost?”
“No.”
His answer came immediately. He wasn’t being defensive or angry.
Just honest.
The room fell silent.
Then he looked down at his hands.
“They found an autoimmune disease during my donor evaluation.”
I frowned.
“What?”
His answer came immediately.
“The doctors think it may eventually damage my remaining kidney,” my ex-husband revealed.
The words hung between us.
“I lost my job before donating. Then I lost my apartment.”
I didn’t respond.
“I have a cousin in Oregon who offered me a place to stay. My bus leaves on Monday.”
He looked toward the window.
Something inside me twisted, but it wasn’t sympathy.
Not yet.
It was something messier.
“I lost my apartment.”
“So why are you here, Daniel?”
His eyes filled again.
“I walked past this house three times. I wasn’t planning to knock.”
“Then why did you?”
His voice cracked.
“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of dying someday without seeing her face again.”
The kitchen fell silent.
I hated him, pitied him, wanted to thank him, and wanted to throw him out!
Every feeling crashed into the others until I couldn’t separate them anymore.
His eyes filled again.
Then I remembered something.
The thing he’d said at the door.
“You didn’t think I did it for nothing,” I repeated.
Daniel’s shoulders slumped.
“I didn’t mean money.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He looked at the photo.
“I meant I did it because she’s my daughter.”
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Then I stood.
“Get out.”
“I didn’t mean money.”
His face fell, but he nodded.
He didn’t argue, become defensive, or attempt to stay.
A minute later, the front door closed behind him.
***
I sat alone in the kitchen.
The photo remained on the table.
A few minutes later, Emma came downstairs.
