“Yes. But it’s for you.”
I stared at him.
“Somehow that’s worse.”
The faintest smile touched his lips.
“Trust me. Please.”
“I do trust you.”
“Then let me do this one thing on my own.”
I nodded, even though every part of me wanted to argue.
When Dr. Whitaker closed the door, I stood in the hallway far longer than I meant to, listening to the murmur of voices I couldn’t make out.
I hated not knowing.
But I loved him enough to let him keep it.
For illustrative purposes only
Part Four: The Note
Daniel died on a gray, rain-soaked Tuesday, my hand wrapped around his until the very end.
Afterward, the donation team walked me through everything, what could be used and what would depend on medical suitability. I answered their questions. I signed where they pointed.
Every time someone asked about Daniel’s wishes, I gave the same answer, steady as I could make it.
“Yes. This is what he wanted.”
And then Dr. Whitaker stopped me in the corridor.
That night, alone in a house that suddenly felt far too big, I opened the envelope.
Inside was a flash drive and a single folded note.
“Don’t watch this because you miss me. Watch it if someone makes you doubt me, Nora. And more than that, watch it if someone makes you doubt yourself.”
I read it twice. Then a third time.
“You’re gone,” I told the paper. “You don’t get to leave instructions anymore.”
Rosalie kicked hard beneath my ribs.
I looked down.
“Your father is bossing me around from the other side. He deserved that one.”
I tucked the flash drive into a drawer and told myself I wouldn’t need it.
Part Five: The Accusations
Two days later, Margaret came by.
I found her in Rosalie’s nursery, refolding a pink blanket that was already folded.
“Margaret.”
“Did they take everything?”
I stopped in the doorway.
“What?”
“From Daniel.”
“They’ll only use what’s suitable for donation.”
Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
“And you’re at peace with that?”
“It’s what he wanted.”
“I asked about you.”
“I’m not at peace with anything.”
“You’re certainly acting like it.”
“How would you like me to act?”
She turned to face me.
“His heart. His skin. His eyes. All of it, handed out to strangers.”
“They don’t transplant whole eyes.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Corneal tissue can be donated.”
She let out a bitter laugh.
“Does the gentler word make it hurt less?”
“No.”
Her chin trembled.
“How am I supposed to live knowing pieces of my boy are out there walking around inside people I’ll never meet?”
“Because Daniel made his peace with it.”
“And you went along with it.”
“Yes. That doesn’t mean it was easy, Margaret.”
