“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking,” I whispered.
Mark had lowered his eyes toward my stomach.
“That’s exactly why I have to.”
Then he said the sentence I would remember every time I thought about signing those donation papers.
“If I can’t watch her grow up, maybe I can at least make sure somebody else gets more time with theirs.”
That was Mark.
He knew he was running out of time.
He knew our daughter might never feel his arms around her.
He knew I was terrified of becoming a mother at the same moment I became a widow.
Still, he was thinking about what he could give.
Standing in our house after the hospital, I finally understood why I had been able to sign the papers.
It wasn’t because I was strong.
It was because Mark had made his wishes impossible to misunderstand.
