“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Ask me again when the drugs wear off.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I swear I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”
At the time, that felt romantic.
Months later, it felt hilarious in a really dark way.
Recovery sucked.
He had a new kidney and a second chance.
I had a new scar and a body that felt like it had been hit by a truck. He had a new kidney and a second chance.
We shuffled around the house together like old people. The kids drew hearts on our pill charts. Friends dropped off casseroles.
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