I Made A Life-Changing Sacrifice To Help My Son. Three Days Later, He Showed Up With A Stack Of Paperwork And Told Me I Was Being Moved Into Assisted Living. I Felt Blindsided—Until His Doctor Walked Back In, Face Tight And Unusually Serious. What She Said Next Stopped Him Cold.

My kidney. For Caleb. Because my son was dying.

Kidney failure. Stage four. He needed a transplant.

And I was a match. A perfect match. What kind of father would I be if I said no?

That question had haunted me even before I signed my name on those papers, even before the doctors told me the surgery was scheduled. It lived in every memory I had of Caleb as a child—his first steps on our living room carpet, his fingers curled around mine when he learned to walk, his laughter when Penelope chased him down the hallway. Penelope.

My wife. Five years gone, and some mornings I still woke up reaching for the warmth that wasn’t there. I pressed the call button.

My fingers shook. A minute later, the door opened. A woman in blue scrubs walked in.

Older, maybe fifty, with kind eyes and gray hair pulled back. Her name tag read: Carol Anderson, R.N. “Mr.

Morrison,” she said softly. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”
“Like someone cut me open,” I said.

My voice came out rough, like I’d swallowed sand. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s normal,” she said.

“You just came out of surgery yesterday. The pain will get better.”

Yesterday. I had lost a whole day.

“Where’s Caleb?” I asked. “Where’s my son?”

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