I hear the hum of the hospital lights overhead and stare at the ceiling tiles as a nurse checks my IV line. My heart is thudding in my chest so loudly I wonder if the monitor will pick it up. The thin hospital gown crinkles as I shift on the gurney, trying to find some comfort on the stiff mattress.
Marisol is lying on a bed next to mine, separated by a pale blue curtain. I can just make out the outline of her feet under the curtain’s hem. She’s quiet; we both are. There’s not much left to say. We’ve been here since dawn, filling out forms, answering last-minute questions from the surgical team. Our lives have been reduced to vital signs and consent forms this morning.
A doctor appears at my side—Dr. Chu, the transplant surgeon. She has kind eyes above her surgical mask. “Evan, we’re about ready. How are you feeling?” she asks gently.
“Ready,” I say, though I’m not sure if I am. My voice comes out thin and dry. In truth, I’m terrified, but not for me. I turn my head toward the curtain. “Is my wife okay?”
“She’s doing fine,” Dr. Chu assures me. “We gave her something to relax. We’ll take good care of both of you.”
I nod, swallowing hard. My mouth is parched; I haven’t had water since last night. There’s a sharp taste of antiseptic in the back of my throat. The reality of what’s about to happen is finally hitting me full force: in a few minutes, I’ll be put under, and when I wake up, I’ll have one less kidney. A piece of me will be gone, living inside Marisol.
My fingers tremble slightly on the IV blanket. I close my eyes and think of the moment we found out I was a match. The relief on Marisol’s face, mingled with guilt—she never wanted me to feel obligated. But I wanted to do this. I needed to do this. Lupus took so much from her, from us. It nearly destroyed her kidneys, her spirit. It tested our marriage in ways we never saw coming. I wasn’t about to let it destroy my wife.
A soft rustle of the curtain, and then her hand finds mine. The curtain is drawn back a few inches by a nurse so we can see each other before we go. Marisol’s brown eyes lock onto mine. They look huge and scared against her pale skin. She opens her mouth, but her voice breaks. “I—” she tries, and a tear slips down her temple onto the pillow.
“Hey,” I whisper, squeezing her fingers. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
She nods, biting her lip. “Thank you,” she mouths silently.
I shake my head with a faint smile. There’s no need for thanks between us. Her hand is warm despite how cold she looks. I memorize the feel of her fingers in mine, the way her dark hair fans out on the white pillow, the beeping of her heart monitor. I want to hold on to this moment in case… just in case.
They begin to wheel her bed out first. Our hands slide apart. Panic flutters in my chest—this is really happening. I catch one last glimpse of her as the nurse turns the gurney toward the operating suite doors. Marisol gives me a trembling thumbs-up, her attempt at bravery. I return it with a weak grin. Then she’s gone around the corner.
My turn. The orderly unlocks the wheels on my gurney. The ceiling starts to move above me as they push me down the corridor. My pulse whooshes in my ears. It feels like I left my body back there holding Marisol’s hand.
The operating room is bright—blinding. Even with my glasses off, I can tell it’s all stainless steel and harsh light. People in scrubs and masks bustle about preparing instruments. It smells like iodine and something sharp, like rubbing alcohol and cold air. I shiver. They slide me onto the operating table and strap down my arms. I feel a surge of fear; the restraints make it real in a primal way.
Dr. Chu’s face appears above me again. “We’re going to take good care of you, Evan. We’ll get that kidney out quickly. Just think—by this afternoon, your wife will have a healthy kidney working inside her.”
I manage a nod. My throat is tight. “Take care of her,” I murmur. I know it’s irrational, but I’m more afraid for Marisol than for myself. My body can handle loss; hers needs the gain.
A mask covers my nose and mouth. “Breathe deep,” someone says. A new scent—plastic and a hint of something sweet—floods in. My eyes flicker to the big round lights above. They look like twin full moons, swimming in and out of focus. My eyelids grow heavy. In the final second before everything goes dark, I think of Marisol’s hand in mine and let that be the last feeling I hold on to.
I wake to the sound of beeping and the weight of a lead blanket on my chest. My mind swims up through layers of thick darkness, and for a moment I don’t know where I am. Everything is blurry. There’s a raw burn in my throat. The beeping quickens as I stir.
Memory rushes back in disjointed flashes: the hospital, the operation, Marisol. My side flares hot with pain, and I try to gasp but it comes out a croak.
“Easy,” a voice says. A nurse is suddenly there, her face coming into focus above me. I see her eyes first—tired but kind—then the rest of her features assemble themselves. I think her name is Carla; she introduced herself before the anesthesia took me. “Don’t try to move too fast.”
I blink and manage a tiny nod. My mouth is so dry it feels glued shut. “Water…” I whisper, though I’m not sure she can hear.
She understands anyway. She swabs my cracked lips with a damp sponge. The drop of water is heaven. I close my eyes in relief as it soaks in.
“You’re in the recovery room,” Nurse Carla says softly. “Surgery’s over. Everything went well.”
Everything went well. The words settle over me, heavy with meaning. A tremor of emotion wells up before I can stop it. My wife – is she okay? I try to speak her name but all that comes is a rasping sound.
“Marisol is fine,” Carla says, reading my mind. “Her surgery went well too. They took her to ICU for monitoring. We’ll bring you to see her as soon as you’re a little more awake.”
I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding. A warmth floods my chest and tears prick the corners of my eyes. Thank God.
The relief is almost enough to override the pain, but not quite. Now that I’m more aware, the ache in my left side roars to life. It’s a deep, raw sensation, like someone scooped something out of me – which, of course, they did. My midsection feels both numb and terribly sore at the same time. I shift and feel a pulling tug; there’s an IV in my arm and something taped across my abdomen. The slightest movement sets off little lightning strikes of pain.
Nurse Carla checks something behind me – my epidural line, maybe. “Your pain might start creeping up as the anesthesia wears off,” she says. “I can give you something for it in a minute. Hang tight.”
I grunt an acknowledgment, trying to be still. The beeping monitor above me shows my heart rate climbing along with the pain. My head lolls to the side. In the curtained bay next to me I hear another patient moaning softly, probably someone from another surgery. The air smells of disinfectant and warm fluids. My own nausea swirls in response to the mix of smells and the pain.
I fight it, focusing on Marisol. She’s okay, I repeat to myself. We’re both okay. I cling to that thought.
They must have taken my glasses off during surgery; everything beyond a few feet is a soft-edged haze. I make out Nurse Carla’s blue scrubs moving around. After a few minutes she returns with a syringe and pushes something into my IV.
“This will help with the pain,” she says. “It might make you sleepy.”
I welcome it. Already a dull heaviness is creeping through my limbs again, smoothing the sharp edges of agony to a bearable throb. The beeping on the monitor slows a bit as I unclench, not realizing I’d been tensed.
“How’s… my wife?” I manage in a low whisper. I need to hear it again, just to anchor myself.
“She’s stable,” Carla answers. “The kidney started working right away, from what I heard. That’s a great sign.”
A tiny laugh escapes my throat, more of a relieved exhale. I feel tears spill down into my ears and I don’t care. My kidney – now her kidney, I suppose – is doing its job. The idea gives me a strange mix of pride and humility. Part of me is alive in her in a literal way. How many people can say that?
For a while, I drift in and out of a medicated haze. Time loses meaning. I dream half-dreams of walking with Marisol in a sunny field, and then jerk awake to the dim recovery room lights and the sound of someone snoring nearby. At one point, a different nurse or orderly comes and asks me questions: my name, the date. I slur out the answers. They check my surgical dressing – I flinch at the pressure on the tender wound, and they apologize. Someone helps me sip water from a straw, which tastes metallic but wonderful.
Eventually, they decide I’m stable enough to move. A pair of orderlies roll my bed out of recovery. The journey through hallways is a blur of ceiling panels and passing shapes. I might have dozed off again because the next thing I know I’m in a new room – a regular hospital room, private, with a window showing an overcast afternoon sky.
I stir, looking around groggily. The movement sends a jolt of pain through my side; I hiss and go still. Breathing shallowly, I take stock. There’s a bandage on my left flank and I can make out the bulky outline of a binder or girdle strapped around my middle under the blanket. Tubes snake from my arm and something stiff is in my nose – probably oxygen cannula prongs.
A nurse – maybe Carla again or someone new – is adjusting my blankets. “You’re on the post-surgical floor now,” she explains. “We’ll be monitoring you closely for the next day or so.”
I lick my cracked lips. “My wife… can I see her?” My voice is stronger now, urgent.
She smiles kindly. “Soon. She’s still in the ICU for today. Donors usually recover on a different floor, but I heard you’ll be able to visit her by tomorrow if everything goes smoothly. Rest now, okay?”
Tomorrow. It feels like ages away. But I nod. I have to trust they know what’s best medically. My eyelids are weighed down by the pain meds and exhaustion. The nurse checks my IV and the monitor one more time, then dims the lights. “Get some sleep. Call if you need anything.”
Sleep. Yes, that sounds good. Now that the adrenaline rush of worry has subsided, I feel like I’ve been flattened by a truck. Every part of me is heavy. I let my eyes close, picturing Marisol’s face. Not the frightened, tearful face from this morning, but how she looked before lupus cast its long shadow over us – smiling, strong, warm. That’s the image I carry with me into the darkness as I finally slide into real sleep.
I wake again to daylight. It must be morning. For a second I don’t remember where I am or why my body feels like it’s been through a war. Then it all floods back. I donated a kidney. Marisol.
I push the button to raise the head of my bed a few inches, wincing as the movement jostles my tender insides. Sunlight filters through the blinds, painting stripes on the pale yellow wall. There’s a plastic cup of water on the tray table within arm’s reach. My throat is still scratchy and sore, but less so than last night. I manage to get the cup and take a sip. Lukewarm water has never tasted so good.
A nurse comes in to check my vitals. She’s young, efficient, with a bright smile. “Good morning, Mr. Díaz. How’s your pain today?”
“Sore,” I admit, my voice still rough. “But manageable, I think.”
On a scale of one to ten, it’s maybe a four when I’m still, spiking to seven if I move too quickly. They taught me about the pain scale yesterday, though much of that teaching is a blur.
“Okay. We’ll get you some oral pain meds now that you’re awake.” She takes my blood pressure and temperature. “And if you’re up for it, we’ll try to get you on your feet later this morning. The sooner you walk, the better.”
I nod, though the idea of standing makes me apprehensive. “Can I see my wife today?”
She gives me a reassuring nod. “Yes, I believe so. She’s doing well. They took her off the ventilator overnight. I heard her new kidney is functioning great. Everyone’s very pleased.”
My eyes sting with tears of gratitude all over again. I blink them away. “That’s… that’s really good.”
“It is,” the nurse smiles. “We’ll coordinate with the ICU to bring you over to see her once you’re steadier on your feet, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
After she leaves, I gingerly run a hand over my side. There are thick bandages under my hospital gown, and I can feel the outline of what must be the incision along my lower flank. The reality of it hits me anew: I really did this. I gave away a piece of myself. And it’s out there, down the hall or maybe on another floor, inside Marisol, giving her life. The thought makes me feel oddly lightheaded, or maybe that’s just the lingering effects of everything.
Later that morning, true to their word, two nurses help me swing my legs over the bed. The floor is cold on my bare feet. I’m wearing nothing but the thin gown and a pair of non-slip socks. When I try to stand, pain spears through my abdomen and I have to bite back a groan. My muscles feel uncoordinated, like they’ve forgotten their job. One nurse – a stocky middle-aged man – holds my arm steady.
“Take your time, Mr. Díaz. Small steps,” he says.
I shuffle forward, hunched over instinctively to protect my midsection. It’s more of a hobble than a walk, but I’m upright. Each step hurts, but in a dull, tolerable way. The pain meds have taken the edge off.
They wheel a blood pressure machine alongside me as we venture out of the room and down the hall slowly. The corridor smells like cleaning solution and faintly of breakfast food from the trays being delivered. My stomach rumbles; I haven’t eaten solid food in over a day. But nerves flutter inside me stronger than hunger. I’m on my way to see Marisol.
We take an elevator up a floor to the ICU. Everything looks more intense here: more nurses per patient, more monitors, a constant hush punctuated by mechanical sounds. They roll a portable IV pole with me. By the time we reach the doorway of her room, I’m sweating and my legs tremble, partly from the exertion, partly from anticipation.
I see her before she sees me. She’s propped up in a bed, looking tiny amid a forest of tubes and wires. There’s an IV in her neck – a central line, I guess – and another in her arm. A dialysis machine stands silent in the corner, no longer needed now. Her eyes are closed, dark lashes resting on cheeks that already have more color than I remember. There’s a gentle rise and fall of her chest; she’s breathing on her own.
“Marisol,” I call softly from the doorway. My voice cracks.
Her eyes flutter open. For a moment she looks disoriented. Then her gaze finds me – standing there in my ridiculous gown, hanging onto a walker frame. A flash of emotion crosses her face, too many things to name: relief, joy, pain, love.
“Evan,” she whispers. Her voice is weak but clear enough. She lifts a hand slightly, unable to do much more with all the attachments.
That’s all the invitation I need. With the nurse’s help, I inch forward to her bedside and sink carefully into a chair. Every part of me wants to lean in and hold her, but I can’t exactly hug her with both of us full of fresh wounds. Instead I reach out and take her hand.
It’s warm. Not clammy and cold like it was before the surgery, when her failing kidneys left her shivering and ashen. There’s warmth and strength in her skin now. I let out a breath that feels like I’ve been holding it for months.
She’s crying softly. Tears pool in her eyes and slip down into her dark hair at the temples, just like earlier. She squeezes my fingers weakly. “You came all this way just to see me?” she jokes in a frail voice.
A laugh breaks out of me, surprising us both. It hurts to laugh – a pulling ache in my side – but I can’t help it. “I figured I should check on my kidney,” I reply, trying to keep it light even as my own tears blur my vision. “See how it’s doing in its new home.”
That makes her smile, a small trembling curve of her lips. “It likes it here. It’s working,” she says. “I… I can feel it. It’s like I’m alive again.”
Her words come out halting, thick with emotion. I lift her hand to my lips and kiss it gently. We don’t need many words. Our eyes say enough. In hers I see gratitude and love so profound it steals any reply I could form. All I can think is: we did it. She’s here, she’s alive, and part of me is inside her making sure she stays that way.
A nurse hovers to monitor Marisol’s vitals, giving us privacy but still present. After a few minutes, I know I have to go back to my floor. I’m starting to feel faint from the effort of coming here, and I don’t want to cause a scene by passing out.
“I’ll come again later,” I promise, reluctant to let go of her hand.
“Please,” she whispers. Her fingers cling to mine a second longer. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, voice thick. Simple words that hold everything we’ve been through.
I force myself to stand. She looks like she wants to say more, but a nurse steps in to adjust one of her IV lines and I take that as my cue to step back.
“I’ll be back,” I repeat, and she nods, giving me that brave smile again through her tears.
The nurse helps me back to the elevator. The adrenaline of seeing her fades and I realize I’m exhausted, every muscle trembling now. By the time I collapse back into my bed, I feel like I ran a marathon. But my heart is lighter than it’s been in a long time.
Over the next few days, recovery is slow and steady. I get stronger bit by bit; from shuffling laps around the ward hunched over, to walking a little straighter with each try. They remove my catheter, then my IV drip, switching me to pills for pain. Each milestone – my first post-surgery meal, my first unassisted shower – feels like a victory, no matter how small.
Marisol’s progress is even more miraculous. By the second day after surgery, they move her out of ICU to a regular transplant recovery floor. I’m discharged before her – the donor’s road is often easier than the recipient’s – but I spend every possible moment in her room. I shuffle over from my ward, or get a wheelchair when I’m too sore. The nurses tease that I might as well be a second patient there.
I help her sip water and watch over her as she sleeps. When she’s awake, we talk in quiet tones about everything and nothing – how we can’t wait to sleep in our own bed, little jokes about hospital food, plans for when she’s stronger. We don’t talk about the hard times leading up to this; those things don’t matter right now in the fluorescent now of the hospital where all that matters is healing.
On the fifth day, Marisol is well enough to go home. I still move like an old man with a bad back, and she’s fragile and easily tired, but we’re going home. Together.
Our friend Daniel – my coworker from the high school – picks us up out front. He chatters nervously as he helps us into the car, going on about how the whole faculty has been rooting for us, how they held a fundraiser for our medical bills. I’m grateful for his help, but I only half-listen, my attention on Marisol. She leans her head against the car window, eyes closed, as the city streets blur by. I watch the sunlight fall on her face and see a peacefulness there that I haven’t seen in a long time.
I reach over and gently take her hand. She opens her eyes and turns to me. We share a small smile – a smile full of exhaustion and relief. It strikes me that this is the beginning of something new. A second chance.
We step through our front door and into the quiet of home. The familiar scent of our living room – a mix of Marisol’s vanilla candles and the laundry detergent we use – washes over me. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. Hospitals all smell the same, a sterile nowhere. But this is our space.
Daniel helps carry in a bag of medications and instructions the hospital gave us. We don’t have much else – a friend already brought our car back earlier. I thank Daniel and he gives us both a gentle, awkward hug, careful not to squeeze too tight. Then he leaves, and it’s just me and Marisol, standing in the entryway.
We look at each other, uncertain for a moment. We’re home. We made it.
“Welcome back to Casa Díaz,” I say softly.
She lets out a breathy laugh. “I can’t believe it’s finally over,” she says. Her voice has a slight quiver, from emotion or fatigue or both.
“It’s not over, it’s just… better,” I reply. “You’re better.”
She nods and carefully eases herself out of her coat. I notice how she moves – gingerly, a hand hovering over her midsection. She’s wearing loose clothes that hide the bandage on her abdomen, but I know underneath she has a fresh scar, a new kidney nestled in her pelvis working to clean her blood.
I shrug off my own jacket and hang it, then slip out of my shoes. Even that gentle motion tugs at my side uncomfortably. We’ve both been pretending we’re stronger than we are. Truth is, we’re exhausted. A simple car ride home drained us.
“You should rest,” I say, noticing the pallor under the new flush of her cheeks.
“In a minute,” she murmurs. She wanders slowly into the living room, trailing her fingers along the back of the sofa, touching the real world as if to anchor herself. I follow, staying close in case she wobbles.
Everything is just as we left it a week ago. There’s a soft blanket crumpled on the couch, one of Marisol’s novels lying face down on the coffee table. A glass with a dried water ring at the bottom. Signs of life interrupted.
She sinks onto the couch with a sigh. I sit down next to her, not too close because of our sore bodies, but close enough that our shoulders almost touch. For a few moments we just sit there in the quiet afternoon light, soaking in the feeling of being home again.
A neighbor’s dog barks faintly somewhere down the street. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Comforting sounds.
“I should probably take my meds,” Marisol says after a while, breaking the silence.
“Right. The schedule.” I push myself up carefully. A wave of dizziness and pain makes me pause, hand on the arm of the sofa, but I steady. I grab the white paper bag from the hospital off the entryway table and bring it over. Inside are orange pill bottles, a thick binder of instructions for transplant patients, a blood pressure cuff, a thermometer, and other odds and ends.
She watches as I fumble with the bag, taking out items. “We can do it together,” she says softly. “Yours too.”
I realize I have my own medications – a bottle of painkillers and stool softeners they told me to take. In all the focus on her care, I nearly forgot about mine.
“Right,” I say, pulling out my pill bottle. I shake out one of the prescribed pills for pain and swallow it dry – too tired to fetch water.
Marisol opens her palm and looks at the assortment of tablets she has to take: anti-rejection drugs, steroids, antacids, things to ward off infection. It’s a lot. She takes them in two gulps with a sip from the water bottle Daniel left for us.
“Down the hatch,” she says, forcing a tiny smile.
“Here’s to new parts,” I respond gently. “And to you feeling better every day.”
She meets my eyes. Her gaze is soft, and for a moment it looks like she might cry. Instead, she nods and leans her head on the back of the couch. “I already do feel better,” she says quietly. “Physically, at least. It’s like night and day, Evan. Before the transplant I felt… I don’t know, like I was dying, slowly. Now, even with the pain, I feel alive.”
I reach out and gingerly take her hand. “You are alive. That’s all I wanted.”
Her fingers squeeze mine, then she lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles lightly. Her lips are warm and slightly chapped. The gesture is tender and a little hesitant, as if she’s not sure I welcome it.
I realize in that instant that I can’t remember the last time we shared a quiet moment like this without a cloud of fear or sickness hanging over us. Maybe months.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice cracking. “For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I whisper back.
She looks down at our hands. “I put you through so much. All of this.” Her free hand gestures vaguely at my side, my bandages hidden under my shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, none of that,” I say softly but firmly. “I did this because I wanted to. Because I love you. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
At that, a tear finally spills down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb, brushing it away. She turns her face into my hand, eyes closed, and I feel her trembling.
We sit like that for a long moment, her cheek resting against my palm, my fingers curved along the side of her face. There’s so much I want to say – about how it was never her fault that she got sick, how I’d cut myself open a thousand times if it meant she’d live without pain. But the silence feels more meaningful, filled with the steady rhythm of our breathing and the unspoken relief that the worst is behind us.
Finally, a dull ache creeps back into my side from sitting upright too long. I shift and gently withdraw my hand. “We should go lie down,” I suggest. “Doctor’s orders: rest.”
She sniffles and nods, wiping her eyes. “Rest sounds good.”
We slowly make our way to the bedroom. It’s early evening now, and our room is dim and calm. I draw the curtains closed while she eases herself onto the bed. We have a king-size bed, but tonight we both lie carefully on our backs, side by side, as if any movement could break us. Two patients at home.
I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows of tree branches sway faintly. My body is bone-tired, but my mind is oddly wakeful, replaying the day. In the darkness, Marisol’s hand finds mine under the light blanket. I lace my fingers with hers.
Her voice comes out of the silence, barely above a whisper. “Evan? Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” I whisper back.
“I can’t sleep. My mind won’t stop.”
I turn my head to look at her profile in the gloom. “What are you thinking about?”
She hesitates. I can just make out her eyes, open and reflective. “Just… everything. How close I came to… And now, I have this second chance because of you.”
I swallow. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not used to her being so direct about nearly dying. “We have a second chance,” I murmur. “Both of us. We’re a team, right?”
She squeezes my hand. “Right.” A pause. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?” I ask gently, my thumb stroking the back of her hand.
She takes a shaky breath. “That something will go wrong. That I’ll reject the kidney. That I’ll get sick again and… waste this gift you gave me.”
My chest tightens. Even now she’s worrying about burdening me. I shift onto my side carefully, facing her. “Look at me.”
She turns her head on the pillow to face me. In the dim light, I see tears shining in her eyes again.
“You’re not going to waste anything,” I say softly. “Listen, this kidney, it’s yours now. It’s a part of you. And you’re going to take good care of it, I know. We both will. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together. But you’re doing great. The doctors said everything looks perfect. Try to believe that.”
A tear slips down her nose. She nods slightly. “Okay.”
I reach out and carefully brush a strand of hair from her forehead. “Try to rest. We both need it.”
She closes her eyes. “Okay,” she repeats, barely audible.
In a few minutes, her breathing evens out. She’s fallen into a light sleep, still holding my hand. I stay awake a while longer, listening to the reassuring sound of her breath and the distant hum of the city outside. My own eyelids grow heavy. Before I drift off, one last thought whispers through my mind:
We have a second chance.
If only I knew what we would do with it.
In the days that follow, we settle into a fragile routine. Mornings start with the chime of my phone alarm reminding us of Marisol’s medication schedule. I wake up stiff and sore each day, a dull reminder in my side of what I gave, but it’s a bit better than the day before. I help her sit up and she takes her pills – a whole handful of them – with the water I keep by the bed. Sometimes I catch her making a face at the bitter taste or the sheer number of capsules, but she never complains aloud.
We spend most of our time in the apartment, moving carefully through our space like we’re made of glass. In a way, we are – healing glass that’s slowly hardening, but still fragile. Light chores, short walks in the hallway of our building, simple meals at the kitchen table. These become the markers of our days.
One afternoon about a week after coming home, I find Marisol in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror with her shirt lifted. She’s inspecting her surgical scar. I pause in the doorway, not wanting to startle her. The new scar on her abdomen is about four inches long, pink and puckered. It’ll fade in time, but right now it looks angry and raw. My own scars are smaller – three little incision marks on my side and one below my belly button from the laparoscopic tools.
She doesn’t notice me at first. Her fingers hover just above the line of the scar, not quite touching it. Her expression is hard to read: a furrowed brow, a slight tremble in her bottom lip.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly.
She jumps a little and drops her shirt. “Evan. You scared me,” she says with a shaky laugh.
“Sorry.” I step in, gently placing a hand on her waist. “I was just… checking on you.”
She leans back against me, and I hold her carefully, palms resting on her hips. We face the mirror together. I can see over her shoulder – see the uncertainty in her eyes as she looks at herself.
“It’s not pretty,” she murmurs, nodding toward the scar under her shirt.
“It’s beautiful,” I say without thinking, and she gives me a doubtful look. “Not the scar itself,” I add quickly, “but what it means. It means you’re here. It means we made it.”
Her eyes glisten and she tilts her head back against my chest. “What did I do to deserve you?” she whispers.
I feel a familiar ache in my heart, not from surgery but from love. “Hey, I’m no saint. You make it sound like I’m some hero. I just… did what any husband would do.”
At that, she gently turns in my arms to face me. “Not any husband,” she says, voice thick. “Not any man. You saved my life.” Her hands rest lightly against my chest. I can feel her warmth even through my shirt.
I don’t know how to reply. I’ve never been good at accepting praise, and coming from her it feels almost uncomfortable. So I deflect with a small joke. “Well, as a biology teacher, I’ve always wanted to be part of a science experiment.”
It works; she cracks a smile, rolling her eyes. “You and your science jokes.”
I grin. “I thought you liked my nerdy side.”
“I do,” she says softly, smile fading into an earnest gaze. “I love all your sides.”
There’s a moment, a charged quiet where we just look at each other. I could kiss her right now. We haven’t kissed properly in… I can’t even remember how long. Between her being sick and our surgeries, intimacy took a back seat. Now, standing here in the soft afternoon light of our bathroom, her face tilted up to mine, it feels like we could finally break that barrier.
I lean down and brush my lips against hers, testing. She responds, eyes fluttering closed. We share a delicate, lingering kiss that tastes like salt from her earlier tears and a hint of mint from her mouthwash. It’s gentle and cautious, but it sparks a familiar warmth in my chest.
After a moment, she pulls back with a wince. “Sorry—my incision,” she says, placing a hand on her abdomen.
I realize I had drawn her a little too close. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” she assures me. “Just a twinge. I’m okay.” She smiles up at me, and despite the interruption, her cheeks have a touch of color.
We spend the rest of that day quietly content. I read on the couch while she naps. Later, she wakes and insists on helping chop vegetables for dinner, even though I tell her to relax. We move around each other in our small kitchen, finding a comfortable rhythm. It almost feels like before, when life was normal and our biggest worry was what takeout to order on a Friday.
But not everything is the same. Sometimes I catch Marisol staring off, her expression troubled. Once, I walked into the bedroom and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, crying softly into her hands. She quickly wiped her eyes and said it was nothing—just stress, or maybe the medication making her emotional. I sat next to her and rubbed her back until she calmed, but an unease lingered in me. I chalk it up to the trauma we’ve been through. It’s natural to have an emotional release after coming so close to the edge.
One night, about two weeks after the transplant, I wake up to find her side of the bed empty. Panic flares through me in that half-second—old habits from when she’d get sick in the night. I struggle out of bed, heart pounding, and find her in the living room. She’s standing by the window, the moonlight silvering her silhouette.
“Marisol?” I call softly.
She turns, startled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I approach slowly. The soft glow of the streetlights outside illuminates her face. There are tears shining on her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, gently touching her arm.
She shakes her head, looking away. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”
I know she’s not telling me everything. In the past, I might have pressed, but now I’m unsure. There’s a distance in her eyes sometimes that I don’t know how to bridge. So I do the best I can – I pull her into a careful hug. She feels tense, then slowly relaxes against me.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “We’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
I feel her nod against my shoulder, though she doesn’t speak. We stand there for a while, holding each other in the quiet night. Eventually I lead her back to bed. She clings to my hand like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
Lying there in the darkness, listening to her breathing slow into sleep, I wonder if maybe she’s dealing with more than I understand. Survivor’s guilt, maybe. Or the emotional crash they warned me about during recovery – they said both donors and recipients can experience a kind of depression or mood swings after the high of the transplant. I resolve to keep a closer eye on her, to be patient. It’s the least I can do.
By the third week, I’m moving around much more easily. I can climb the stairs to our apartment without feeling like my side is ripping open. My doctor cleared me to drive short distances again. I even start thinking about work – checking in with the substitute teacher handling my classes, grading some of the assignments that piled up.
I notice Marisol encouraging me gently to engage with the outside world. “Maybe you should go into school for a few hours,” she suggests one morning. “The walk and a change of scene might do you good.”
“What about you? Will you be okay here by yourself?” I ask. I’ve been hovering over her like a mother hen, I know.
She smiles. “I’ll be fine. I feel stronger every day. I can always call my sister if I need anything.”
Her sister Elena has been by a few times, dropping off home-cooked meals and helping with groceries. I realize I haven’t let myself stray far from Marisol’s side since surgery. Maybe a short trip out is a good idea – it might also help her feel less watched.
“Alright,” I concede. “I’ll go in tomorrow, just to see everyone and get some paperwork sorted. A couple of hours at most.”
She seems relieved, which surprises me a little. I try not to overthink it.
The next day, I drive to the school. It’s strange to be out in the world alone again, doing something normal like sitting in mild traffic and listening to the radio. The sun is bright and the air has that crispness of early fall. I breathe it in and feel a knot in my chest unwinding a bit. Maybe I’ve been more stressed than I realized, constantly worrying about Marisol.
At school, I’m greeted like a minor celebrity – everyone knew about the transplant. Colleagues clap me on the shoulder carefully, students who see me in the hallway give shy smiles or a thumbs-up. Daniel, who gave us the ride home, catches me in the teacher’s lounge and won’t stop asking if I need anything, if I’m really okay to be here.
I assure him I’m fine and just wanted to ease back in. I do feel fine for the most part, but after two hours of catching up on emails and planning, fatigue tugs at me. Before heading home, I stop by the grocery store to pick up a few things – it’s my first time shopping alone in weeks.
When I return to the apartment, bags in hand, I find Marisol on the couch with her laptop. She looks up with an expression of surprise – almost guilty, though I don’t know why.
“You’re back already?” she says, closing the laptop quickly.
“Already? I was gone almost three hours.” I chuckle, holding up the groceries. “I got that herbal tea you like and some fresh fruit.”
She stands and comes over to take a bag from me. “That’s great, thank you.” Her voice is warm, but there’s a tightness around her eyes.
“You okay?” I ask, studying her face. “You look… tired.”
“I’m fine,” she says a bit too quickly. “Just did some cleaning and paid some bills online. Probably overdid it.”
I frown. “You should be resting, not cleaning. Things don’t have to be perfect.”
She forces a smile. “I know. I just wanted to feel useful.”
I get it – she’s been cooped up at home, feeling like a patient. Maybe doing normal tasks is her way of regaining control. So I nod and let it drop.
That evening, Elena comes by with dinner. We eat together, chatting about trivial things. Marisol seems cheerful enough in her sister’s presence, though I notice she avoids the topic of the future, or any plans beyond next week. When Elena asks if we’re planning a belated celebration for our upcoming anniversary (our five-year anniversary is next month), Marisol shifts uncomfortably and says something vague like, “We’ll see.” I jump in to say that we’ve had a lot on our plate, which is true.
After Elena leaves, the apartment goes quiet. I wash up the dishes, waving off Marisol’s offer to help. As I’m drying the last plate, I catch her leaning against the doorway watching me. There’s an odd melancholy in her eyes.
“What is it?” I ask softly.
She opens her mouth, hesitates, then just shakes her head. “Nothing. I was just thinking how sweet you are. You’ve done everything for me.”
I set the plate down. There’s something in her voice – a wavering sincerity that almost sounds like a goodbye. It sends a shiver of anxiety through me. I cross the kitchen and gently wrap my arms around her. “I haven’t done anything you wouldn’t do for me,” I say into her hair.
Her arms slide around my back and she grips me tightly. I feel her face press into my shoulder. She’s shaking a little.
“I don’t deserve you,” she whispers, muffled.
I pull back to look at her, but she avoids my eyes, hastily wiping at a tear on her cheek.
“Hey,” I say, tilting her chin up. “Where’s this coming from?”
She forces a smile that wobbles. “I’m just emotional. Hormones or something.” A weak laugh. “Probably the prednisone making me weepy.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I’m not entirely convinced. I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “Everything’s alright, Marisol.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, leaning into my touch. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Alright.”
But something is not alright. I can feel it in the way her body tenses against mine, in the unspoken words hovering in her eyes when she finally meets my gaze. Something weighs on her, but I’m afraid to ask, afraid to shatter the tentative peace we’ve built in our recovery.
That night, she cries in her sleep. I wake to soft whimpers and find her turned away, curled in on herself. I rub her back until whatever dream troubled her passes. She never fully wakes, and in the morning she doesn’t remember, or at least pretends not to.
Each day she seems a little more on edge. And each day I tell myself it will pass. Because what else can I do? I gave her a piece of my body to save her life. Now I have to save her heart too, whatever the cost.
It happens on a cool Saturday evening, about three and a half weeks after the transplant. I remember because I was marking quizzes at the dining table, trying to get a head start before returning to work full-time the following week. Marisol was in the kitchen washing dishes from dinner. The clink of plates and running water was the soundtrack of our quiet domestic night.
I glanced up from my papers and watched her for a moment. She moved slowly, still being careful, but she seemed steady. There was a small furrow in her brow, the same one I’d seen often in recent days when she thought I wasn’t looking. Something weighed on her, but I had told myself to be patient until she was ready to talk.
As if she could feel my eyes on her, she turned off the faucet and dried her hands. “Evan, can we talk?” she asked softly, not meeting my gaze.
My stomach did a little flip. Her tone set off an alarm in my head. I set down my pen. “Of course.”
She walked over and sat down across from me at the table. The overhead light was off; we had only a small lamp on in the living room, so her face was in shadow. Still, I could see the tension in her posture—shoulders tight, hands clasped together in front of her on the table.
I reached out, covering her hands with one of mine. “What is it?” I said, keeping my voice gentle. Whatever it was, she was clearly anxious.
She took a shaky breath. “There’s something I need to tell you… something I should have told you before, but I—” Her voice faltered and she looked down at our hands.
A cold prickle of dread crawled up the back of my neck. This wasn’t the prelude to good news. “Okay,” I whispered, my mouth suddenly dry.
She tried again, words tumbling out rushy and uneasy. “I did something. Something bad, Evan.”
I felt her hands trembling under mine. My instinct was to say “It’s alright, whatever it is,” but I bit my tongue. I wasn’t sure I wanted to reassure her blindly. Not yet.
She swallowed hard and finally forced herself to meet my eyes. In the dim light, hers were glossy with tears. “I… I was unfaithful to you.”
For a second, it’s like I don’t understand the words. Unfaithful. The syllables bounce in my brain, searching for meaning. Then it slams into me: She cheated. My hand recoils from hers as if burned.
Marisol presses on, words spilling out in a panic now. “It was just once. Only one time, I swear. It was back in June… when things were so bad between us… I never meant—” Her voice breaks as a sob erupts, cutting off the rest of her sentence.
I feel like the floor beneath me has cracked wide open. I’m falling, dizzy. June. Back in June. We were at each other’s throats then, barely speaking because I was in denial about how sick she was, and she was angry at the world, at me, at everything. We had a horrible fight one night. I remember I stormed out and stayed at Daniel’s place for two nights to cool off. The rough patch—we’d come so close to breaking.
I hear myself ask, woodenly, “You slept with someone?”
She nods, covering her mouth with one hand as if to hold back the sobs. “I’m so sorry,” she chokes out. “It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. We were fighting and you left… I was a mess. I—I went out and I got drunk and I—” She can’t finish, tears are flowing freely now.
I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping the wood floor with a harsh sound. I stand up because I can’t sit still. My entire body is buzzing, adrenaline and hurt and disbelief all swirling in a tornado inside me.
She looks up at me, panicked. “Please… please say something.”
I open my mouth but all that comes out is a strange half-gasp. I can’t find words. My chest feels like it’s caving in. A memory surfaces: me on the operating table, saying “take care of her” to the surgeon. The image twists like a knife. I did all that while completely blind to the fact that she—
I press a hand to my side where a dull pain is growing, a mirror to the sharper one in my heart. “Who?” I manage to rasp out.
She shakes her head quickly. “No one you know. It was nobody, I mean… just a stranger.” Her shoulders shake. “It meant nothing. Nothing at all. I regretted it instantly. I’ve regretted it every day since.”
I close my eyes, a bitter laugh escaping me, though it comes out sounding more like a groan. A stranger. It almost doesn’t matter who. The betrayal is the same.
“When…?” I ask, though she already said June. I need details and I don’t. I hate the images forming in my mind but I can’t stop picking at the wound already.
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “That weekend you were away. I was so angry and hurt and… I wasn’t thinking straight. I went to a bar and there was this man who was… kind, and listened, and I… I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Each word feels like a stone being dropped into my gut. I remember that weekend. I was sleeping on Daniel’s lumpy sofa, telling myself I’d give her space to calm down. When I came home, she hugged me so tight and cried and we apologized to each other. We promised we’d try harder. She never told me what she’d done in the interim.
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at it, needing some physical sensation to anchor me. My breathing is harsh in the silence of the room. She’s looking at me with absolute fear, like she expects me to explode.
And inside, maybe I am exploding. But on the outside, I’m frozen. When I finally speak, my voice sounds eerily calm, disconnected from the chaos in my head. “So all this time, you’ve been carrying that,” I say slowly. “Through the transplant, everything… you never told me.”
She stands now, taking a tentative step towards me. “I was afraid,” she sobs. “I was going to tell you, but then I got sick and everything happened so fast. And then you… you saved me, Evan, and I felt so guilty. I had to tell you, I couldn’t live with it—”
“Guilty,” I repeat, a tremor in my voice now. “You felt guilty, so you tell me now? After I gave you my kidney? Jesus Christ, Marisol…” I back away as she tries to come closer. I can’t have her touch me right now. I think I might break apart.
“I’m sorry,” she weeps. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know how to make it right. If I could take it back—”
“But you can’t!” I snap, louder than I intended. My voice bounces off the walls. “You can’t take it back. It happened.”
She flinches like I struck her. Seeing her recoil softens something in me for just a second—my instinct is still to comfort her, unbelievably—but I hold myself rigid. I need to think.
My mind is a storm: images of her with someone else entwine with memories of her pale and sick, and then her smiling weakly in the hospital bed saying she loves me. It’s a jumble that makes me feel like I might be sick.
I realize I’m breathing too fast. The room tilts. I need air.
Without a word, I turn and grab my coat from the hook by the door.
“Where are you going?” Marisol cries, her voice high with panic. She moves toward me, one hand outstretched.
“Out,” I say, barely recognizing the flat, cold tone of my own voice.
“Please, don’t go—”
“I can’t… I can’t look at you right now,” I say, voice breaking at the end. That cruel half-truth lands like a slap. She stops in her tracks, her face crumpling.
I don’t wait. I open the door and walk out into the chilly night, letting the door shut on her sobs.
I make it down the stairs of our building and onto the sidewalk before the first tear blurs my vision. I have no idea where I’m going. I just need to be away—from the apartment, from her, from the suffocating weight of what I just heard.
The evening air is cold on my face, the first stars just pricking the sky. I gulp oxygen like a man nearly drowned.
She cheated on me. My wife, whose life I was so terrified to lose, slept with someone else.
I walk. One block, then another. Each step jostles my healing wound, sending spikes of pain through my side, but I welcome it. It’s grounding; it’s real. Physical pain is simpler.
My mind replays her words on a loop. The rough period, our worst fight… and she ran to someone else’s arms. And then, months later, after I cut into my flesh to give her life, she tells me.
Anger surges hot and bitter, twisting with hurt until I can’t separate them. I find myself on a quiet side street, empty at this hour, and I lean against a lamppost, sucking in ragged breaths. Without meaning to, I let out a roar of anguish, a sound that comes from the depths of my gut. It echoes off silent suburban houses and dies in the dark.
I slide down to sit on the curb, head in my hands. I don’t remember starting to cry, but now I can’t stop. In great heaving sobs that tear at my sore insides, I cry for everything—for the love I thought we had, for the trust that’s shattered, for the cruel joke fate played on me. I saved her life, and in return she broke my heart.
Time loses meaning as I sit there. Eventually the cold seeping through my jacket shocks me back to a semblance of sense. I need to go… somewhere. I can’t wander all night.
With trembling hands, I fumble my phone out of my pocket. Without consciously deciding to, I dial the only person I can think of.
“…Hello?” comes Daniel’s voice, thick with sleep or confusion.
I hadn’t even realized how late it’s gotten. I swipe at my face, try to steady my voice. “Dan? It’s me.”
“Evan? Are you okay?” He’s more alert now, hearing something in my tone.
No, I’m not okay. I’m the furthest thing from okay. But what I say is: “Can I crash at your place tonight?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’ll come get you—where are you?”
I look around, trying to identify the street. “No, I have my car,” I recall suddenly. I left it in our lot. Should I even drive? I’m not exactly sober-minded right now. But I also can’t stomach going back in for my keys and seeing her. Wait, I have my keys—they’re in my coat pocket. The muscle memory of grabbing them is there, even if I don’t remember doing it.
“Evan?” Daniel prompts over the phone.
“I… I just need a place to stay,” I mutter. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
“Alright. I’ll be up. Drive safe, okay?”
I hang up without really responding. My cheeks have cooled and stiffened in the night air, the tears drying. I force myself to stand. The sudden motion makes my head spin, and I brace against the lamppost until it passes.
Slowly, I trudge back towards our building. I half-expect to see Marisol standing outside looking for me, but the entrance is empty. Maybe she’s waiting inside, or too distraught to move. The thought of her sobbing alone on the floor nearly weakens my resolve, but I steel myself. I step into the parking lot and spot my car under the sodium lights.
Getting into the driver’s seat is an exercise in willpower; my side screams as I lower myself, but adrenaline and emotional turmoil dull it to a background throb. I sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to breathe. I notice my hands are shaking.
I shouldn’t be driving like this. But I also can’t be here. I turn the ignition.
As I back out, I glance up at our bedroom window. The light is on. I imagine her silhouette there, looking out for me. Or maybe she’s curled up somewhere, crying.
My chest lurches. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles whiten. I can’t think about that. About her. Not right now.
I pull out of the lot and drive towards Daniel’s, my mind numb and racing at the same time. One thought thuds dully in my head in sync with my heartbeat all the way there:
What am I going to do now?
I barely sleep at all on Daniel’s couch. My body is exhausted, but my mind won’t shut off. Sometime around 4 a.m., I finally drift into a fitful doze. I wake after sunrise with a raw throat and eyes that feel sandpapered.
Daniel offers me coffee and a sympathetic look. I know he’s dying to ask what happened, but he doesn’t push. I’m grateful. I just tell him Marisol and I had a big fight and I needed space. The details stick in my throat; I’m not ready to say them out loud.
By late morning, I know I can’t avoid home any longer. I left without my medications, without a change of clothes—without any sort of plan. Besides, this is between me and my wife. We need to face it.
When I pull into our apartment lot, my stomach clenches. I half expect the locks to be changed or something dramatic, but of course not. This isn’t some thriller, it’s just my broken life.
I step inside our apartment to find Marisol on the couch, wrapped in a blanket despite the mild day. She bolts upright when she sees me, eyes red and swollen. She’s still in the clothes from last night, and it looks like she hasn’t slept either.
“Evan,” she breathes, standing uncertainly.
I close the door behind me softly. Being back in this space, I feel a strange mix of anger, love, and sorrow. This is our home, where we’ve shared everything… and now it’s full of a hurt I never thought we’d know.
I remain near the door. “I came to talk,” I say quietly. My voice sounds flat.
She nods rapidly, stepping forward. “I’m so sorry,” she begins, voice trembling. “I tried calling—”
“My phone was off,” I reply. I cross my arms, not in anger but as if to hold myself together. “I just… need you to talk to me. Why? Why did you do it?”
Tears fill her eyes instantly at the question. She wraps the blanket around herself tighter, as if ashamed. “I was hurt and angry,” she says, voice cracking. “That night, we had that horrible fight. I felt like you didn’t care, like you were giving up on me… I was giving up on myself, honestly. I went out to numb everything. I never meant for it to go that far. I was drunk and stupid and… empty. The moment it was over, I hated myself for it.”
She takes a shaky breath and continues. “When you came home afterward and we made up, I wanted to tell you so many times, but I was terrified. I thought I would lose you if you knew. And then a few weeks later, I got so sick and everything became about survival. Every day I wanted to tell you, but I kept waiting for a ‘right time’ that never came. Especially after you decided to donate… I was sick with guilt, but I was also selfish. I needed you – I needed us to be okay to get through that. So I stayed quiet. And that was wrong. I see that now.”
Her words pour out in a raw stream. She wipes at her eyes. I listen, trying to keep my own emotions in check, but it’s hard. Hearing that she wanted to tell me but chose not to… it feels like deceit layered on deceit, even if I understand the fear.
“You should have told me then,” I say, not harshly, just sadly. “Before the transplant. Before I…”
I trail off, and her face crumples. “I know. I know I should have. But I was cowardly. And by the time I realized I couldn’t bear not telling you, it was after the surgery and you were in pain and so happy that I was okay… I just— I knew it would destroy you. I didn’t want to ruin your recovery, or make you regret saving me.”
I close my eyes. There’s a dull throb in my temple. “It does… it does mess with my head,” I admit softly. “I keep thinking, God, I cut out a part of me for her and all that time… she had this secret.”
She steps closer, just a foot away now. I can see how badly she wants to reach for me, but she’s afraid. “I never, ever wanted to hurt you. I love you, Evan. I’ve loved you since the day we met. My stupid, desperate mistake doesn’t change that. You have to know that.”
I look at her, this woman I’ve built my life around. I believe she loves me. But she also broke something, and I’m not sure it can be fixed. “I believe you,” I say slowly. “But it doesn’t undo it.”
A sob hiccups in her throat. “Can you ever forgive me?”
I rub a hand over my face. Forgiveness. It seems both impossible and yet maybe necessary for both of us to heal. “Maybe… someday,” I say truthfully. “But I can’t pretend like it never happened. I can’t just go back to how we were.”
She nods miserably. We stand there in the quiet, the enormity of what we’re facing pressing in on all sides.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispers. “But I know I might have already.”
For a long moment, I say nothing. My eyes drift to the coffee table where a stack of our wedding photo albums sits—we’d pulled them out a month ago, trying to distract ourselves one sick afternoon. On top is a picture of us on our wedding day, laughing as we feed each other cake. That moment feels like it was a lifetime ago.
“I don’t want to lose you either,” I finally say, voice thick. “But… I don’t know how to move forward from this. Not right now.”
She closes her eyes as tears slip down. “I’ll do anything. Counseling, time apart, whatever you need. I just— I don’t want to throw us away.”
Her desperation is heartbreaking. I feel tears burning in my own eyes again. I go to the couch and sink down; my legs feel weak. After a second, she sits gingerly at the far end, giving me space.
We talk for what feels like hours. Voices low, often breaking into tears on both sides. We sift through the ashes of our past year—the anger, the fear, the mistakes. We circle around the hurt and the love, trying to see if anything solid remains beneath the wreckage.
In the end, it’s strangely calm. We come to the realization together, haltingly, painfully, that maybe the best thing is to part, at least for now. The trust between us has been dealt a wound that won’t heal quickly. The effort of saving her life and the weight of her secret have changed us both.
“I think I need to be on my own for a while,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “I can’t heal here, not with this constant reminder… and I don’t want to punish you every day with my anger or sadness.”
Her face crumples anew, but she nods. “I understand.”
We decide, practically, that I will stay with Daniel or find a sublet for the next few months. We won’t make any drastic legal moves immediately—no talk of divorce lawyers in this moment. It’s more a separation than an ending, spoken out loud in a trembling ceasefire of mutual pain.
When it’s settled, we just sit there, numb and grieving. Before I leave to pack a bag, Marisol reaches out and touches my hand lightly. “Evan… I know I have no right to ask, but… do you regret it? Giving me your kidney?”
The question breaks my heart anew. I look at her—her eyes downcast, bracing for me to say something that will destroy her. I shift closer and gently lift her chin so she faces me.
“No,” I say, my voice firm despite the tears gathering. “I don’t regret saving your life. Not for one second. You needed me, and I could help. That’s separate from… this.”
A sob escapes her and she closes her eyes, a mix of relief and sorrow washing over her features. I continue, my own tears finally falling freely. “If I hadn’t done it, you might not be here. And despite everything, I’m glad you are. You deserved a chance to live, Marisol. To get better. That part… that part was never a question.”
She grips my hand and we lean our foreheads together, both of us crying quietly. It’s a strange moment—full of love and pain all at once. In that closeness, I feel the ghost of what we had, warm and familiar, and I feel the reality of what’s been lost, sharp and cold.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers one last time.
“I know,” I whisper back. It’s all I can manage without breaking apart completely.
I stand and she stands with me. For a moment, we hesitate. Then I open my arms and she steps into them. We hold each other gently, mindful of our healing wounds. Her tears dampen my shirt; I feel mine on her shoulder. We stay like that, swaying slightly, saying our silent goodbyes to the life we thought we would have.
When we part, I press a soft kiss to her forehead. It’s a tender, chaste thing – a benediction of sorts. She closes her eyes at the touch, fresh tears slipping down.
“I’ll… I’ll go pack some things,” I murmur.
She just nods, covering her mouth as if to stifle another sob.
In the bedroom, I grab a duffel and numbly fill it with clothes, toiletries, my laptop, whatever I’ll need for a little while. My movements are automatic, my mind elsewhere – flickering through memories of this room, of us. The shadows lengthen on the walls as afternoon slides toward evening.
At the doorway, I stop and look back at our home. Marisol stands by the window, hugging herself, staring out at nothing. The late sunlight catches in her hair, highlighting the strands of deep brown I know so well. She looks small and unbearably sad.
I clear my throat softly. “I’ll call you,” I say. It’s a flimsy promise – call her when? About what? I don’t know. Maybe just to check she’s okay.
She turns to me, wiping her cheek. “Okay.”
We walk to the front door together. My bag over my shoulder suddenly feels like it’s full of bricks. At the threshold, I pause. My heart hammers, because this is it. This is where I leave.
I meet her eyes. “Take care of yourself,” I say softly. “Please.”
“You too,” she replies. “And… thank you. For everything.”
Tears threaten again. I bite them back. “Goodbye, Marisol.”
Her face crumples, but she manages, “Goodbye, Evan.”
I step out and close the door gently behind me. The latch clicks with a sense of awful finality.
The evening air is cool and still. I walk to my car as the first stars blink into the dusk sky. Before getting in, I find myself looking up at our apartment window one more time. I can’t see her, but I imagine her there. Part of me wants to run back and say this is crazy, that we can find a way. But I know that impulse is just the sting of heartbreak talking. Some things can’t be fixed just by wishing.
As I drive away, I feel hollow. Each breath hurts, as if my broken heart is pressing against my healing incision. Yet beneath the pain, there’s a strange calm too. A sense that this is the right path, however painful.
In the days that follow, we’ll sort out the logistics—telling family, dividing responsibilities, carefully explaining to those who need to know that we’re taking time apart. In time, maybe we’ll find some new equilibrium, perhaps as friends or perhaps just as two people who once shared everything.
For now, as I turn onto a street lined with gently swaying trees, I allow myself to cry, just a little. I cry for the end of something precious and for the beginning of an uncertain future.
But I also know this: a part of me will always be with Marisol, helping her live, even if I can’t be the one by her side. She carries my love inside her in more ways than one. And maybe that truth is the spare piece I get to keep—the knowledge that I gave all I could, that in the end, I chose to save someone I loved.
It has to be enough.