We were in pre-op together for a while. Two beds, side by side. He kept looking at me like I was a miracle and a crime scene at the same time.
At the time, that felt romantic.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Ask me again when the drugs wear off.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I swear I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”
At the time, that felt romantic.
Months later, it felt hilarious in a really dark way.
Recovery sucked.
He had a new kidney and a second chance.
I had a new scar and a body that felt like it had been hit by a truck. He had a new kidney and a second chance.
We shuffled around the house together like old people. The kids drew hearts on our pill charts. Friends dropped off casseroles.
At night, we’d lie side by side, both sore, both scared.
“We’re a team,” he’d tell me. “You and me against the world.”
I believed him.
Eventually, life settled.
I went back to work.
I went back to work. He went back to work. The kids went back to school. The drama moved from “Is Dad going to die?” to “Ella left her homework at school again.”
If this were a movie, that would’ve been the happy ending.
Instead, things got… strange.
At first, it was small.
Daniel was always on his phone. Always “working late.” Always “exhausted.”
He started snapping at me over nothing.
I’d ask, “You okay?” and he’d say, “Just tired,” without looking up.
He started snapping at me over nothing.
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