My husband became an organ donor as his final wish — after he d!ed, his doctor stopped me and said, “There’s something he made me promise to give you only after he was gone.”

I laughed so hard that I nearly cried.

Then, one afternoon, the baby kicked beneath my hand at exactly the right moment.

We looked at each other.

And somehow, we both knew.

Cecelia.

That would be her name.

For a while, our happiness seemed complete.

Then, during my sixth month of pregnancy, everything changed.

Mark became seriously ill.

At first, we thought it was something manageable.

Then came the tests.

The appointments.

The specialists.

The conversations that became increasingly difficult to hear.

Eventually, the doctors gave us the news neither of us was prepared for.

Mark was dying.

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.