“You’re sure?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” I said. “Ask me again when the drugs wear off.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”
At the time, it felt beautiful.
Months later, it felt darkly hilarious.
Recovery was brutal.
He walked away with a new kidney and a second chance.
I walked away with a scar and a body that felt like it had been hit by a truck.
We shuffled around the house together like old people. Friends dropped off casseroles. The kids drew hearts on our pill charts.
At night, we lay side by side, sore and scared.
“We’re a team,” he told me. “You and me against the world.”
I believed him.
Eventually, life settled.
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