They gave him no more than three months.
Three months.
Our daughter might not even be born before he was gone.
He probably wouldn’t live long enough to meet her.
I remember going home that evening and sitting on our porch without saying much.
Mark sat beside me.
One hand rested gently on my stomach.
Cecelia moved beneath my skin.
I wanted to pretend none of it was happening.
Instead, Mark looked down at my belly and said something that broke my heart.
“If my organs are still healthy enough when the time comes, I want them donated.”
I turned toward him.
“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking.”
His expression softened.
“That’s exactly why I have to.”
He looked at my stomach again.
“If I can’t watch her grow up, maybe I can at least make sure somebody else gets more time with theirs.”
I didn’t want to hear it.
I didn’t want to think about a world in which our daughter grew up without her father.
But Mark had already begun thinking beyond his own death.
He wasn’t talking about giving up.
He was talking about what he could leave behind.
Mark grew weaker much faster than we expected.
