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.”

“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.

By my eighth month, I was helping him button his shirts.

Sometimes he had to stop halfway to the bathroom just to catch his breath.

I tried not to stare.

I tried not to let him see how frightened I was.

We both knew what was happening.

But neither of us wanted to spend our remaining days talking only about death.

So we talked about Cecelia.

We discussed the nursery.