I waited for fury to swallow me when Marcus told me the truth, but what I saw instead was a man already serving a life sentence in his own body. Every early morning drive to dialysis, every sandwich eaten in plastic chairs, every book read aloud while my blood cycled through tubes—he had been bleeding out his apology in hours instead of words. The kidney was only the final piece of himself he knew how to give.
Forgiving him did not sanctify the crash or soften the memory of Jennifer gasping in the hospital bed. It simply refused to let that single moment dictate every moment after. Now my days stretch beyond the clinic walls. My daughter lingers at our kitchen table. Marcus and I stand side by side at Jennifer’s grave, our silence no longer a punishment, but a promise that something living can grow from what we destroyed.
