Her gaze dropped to my belly.
“At least you still get to keep a part of him.”
My hand moved over Rosalie before I could think.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t drag her into this.”
Margaret walked out without another word.
At the memorial, she went further.
One of Daniel’s uncles hugged me beside the flower arrangements.
“He was helping people right to the very end.”
Daniel’s aunt nodded.
“You must be so proud.”
“Proud?”
Margaret had come up behind us.
I turned.
“Margaret.”
“She doesn’t get to be proud of this.”
The room went silent.
“My son could barely cross a room by himself,” she went on, her voice rising, “and we’re all supposed to believe he calmly signed away his own body?”
“He did.”
“You agreed to it.”
“Yes. I gave my husband his dying wish.”
Her eyes flooded.
“Well. At least you’re honest about something.”
I could have ended it right there. I could have told her about the conversations, the porch, the envelope.
Instead I said, “We’re not doing this here.”
“Because you can’t?”
“Because we’re here for Daniel.”
And I walked away.
I told myself my silence was a kindness.
By evening, it had become something else entirely.
Daniel’s aunt stopped me by the door as I was leaving.
“Was he on anything that might have clouded his judgment?”
“What?”
“Margaret mentioned he might not have been thinking straight.”
“Daniel knew exactly what he wanted.”
“I’m only asking, dear.”
“No. You’re asking whether I pressured my dying husband into something he didn’t want.”
She couldn’t meet my eyes.
Part Six: His Voice
That night, I went straight to the nursery.
I opened my laptop with shaking hands.
Then I pulled the flash drive from the drawer and plugged it in.
Daniel appeared on the screen.
He was thinner than I remembered. Paler. But his eyes were the same.
“If you’re watching this just because you miss me, turn it off.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
“You don’t get to boss me around,” I whispered.
He shifted in his chair.
“I mean it, Nor.”
Then his expression changed.
“Mom asked me not to donate.”
I leaned closer to the screen.
“She asked more than once. And then she asked me whether the decision was really mine, or whether it was yours.”
The floor seemed to drop out from under me.
“I told her it was mine. Only mine.”
He dragged both hands down his face.
“She can’t stand the idea of strangers carrying something of me after I’m gone. And I understand that. I do. But her grief doesn’t get to make you the villain.”
My breath caught.
“Don’t protect me by letting her hurt you. And don’t let Rosalie grow up believing her father was too weak to make his own choices.”
I hit pause.
“You knew.”
I stood up so fast the chair rolled back.
“You knew she might do this, and you didn’t tell me.”
I pressed both hands against my stomach, against our daughter.
