He wanted me to remember them as something he had chosen to give.
The distinction mattered to him.
It began to matter to me too.
For weeks after his diagnosis, so much had been taken from us.
Time was taken.
Plans were taken.
His strength was taken.
The future we had assumed we would share was taken.
But the donation was different.
That was still his decision.
That was still generosity.
That was still Mark finding one small place where illness did not get the final word.
I sat in that nursery until the light outside changed.
At some point I placed both hands on my stomach.
“Our dad loved you so much,” I whispered.
I had never called him that before.
Our dad.
Not my husband.
Not Mark.
Her dad.
The words made his absence feel sharper, but they also made something else clear.
Death had ended our marriage in the physical sense, but it had not ended his place in our daughter’s story.
