The thought of leaving my daughter without a mother terrified me more than dying itself. I knew what that felt like.
My own mother had abandoned me when I was a baby.
My father died in a car accident years later, and Grandma raised me from then on.
According to her, my mother had wanted a better life and disappeared the moment she had the chance.
I stared at him.
So when my transplant doctor came in several days after surgery and told me there was something unusual about my donor, I expected almost anything except what he said.
“Before she died, she made it clear that if her heart was medically suitable for you, she wanted you to receive it.”
I stared at him.
“Who was she?”
My mother’s last name.
He hesitated before giving me the name.
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
Every bit of warmth left my face.
Whitmore.
I finally went home.
My mother’s last name.
The woman who had abandoned me had somehow known I was dying.
And she had wanted her heart to save me.
Two weeks later, I finally went home.
