I once believed the hardest thing I would ever do for my husband was give him a piece of my body. At forty-three, I thought my life was stable—imperfect, but honest. I had met Daniel when I was twenty-eight, married him two years later, built a quiet suburban life filled with school concerts, grocery runs, and the comforting illusion that love, once chosen, would hold. When his health failed and the doctors spoke of chronic kidney disease, I didn’t hesitate. I offered myself before fear could speak. When they told us I was a match, I cried with relief. He cried too. He held my face and promised to spend the rest of his life making it up to me. I believed him. I thought sacrifice was proof of love, and love was protection. Continue reading…
