“She doesn’t get to be proud of this.”
“You must be proud.”
Everyone went quiet.
“Mark could barely walk across a room,” she continued. “But somehow we’re supposed to believe he calmly chose all of this?”
“He did.”
“You agreed to it.”
“Yes, Violet. I gave my husband his dying wish.”
“Mark could barely walk across a room.”
Her eyes filled.
“At least you’re honest about something.”
I could have ended the argument.
Instead, I said, “We’re not doing this here.”
“Because you can’t?”
“Because we’re here for Mark.”
“We’re not doing this here.”
I walked away.
I thought silence was kindness.
By that evening, it had turned into something else.
Mark’s aunt stopped me near the door.
“Was he taking anything that affected his judgment?”
I walked away.
“What?”
“Violet said maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Mark knew exactly what he wanted.”
“I’m only asking.”
“No. You’re asking whether I pushed my dying husband into something he didn’t want.”
She looked away.
“I’m only asking.”
***
That night, I went straight to Cecelia’s nursery.
I opened my laptop.
Then I plugged in the flash drive.
Mark appeared on the screen.
He looked thinner than I remembered.
“If you’re watching this because you miss me, turn it off.”
I went straight to Cecelia’s nursery.
I covered my mouth.
“You don’t get to boss me around.”
He shifted in his chair.
“I’m serious, Sal.”
“Mom asked me not to donate.”
“I’m serious, Sal.”
I leaned closer.
“She asked more than once. Then she asked whether the decision was really mine or yours.”
My stomach dropped.
“I told her it was mine.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I told her it was mine.”
“She can’t stand the idea that strangers might get something from me after I’m gone.”
He paused.
“I understand why. But grief doesn’t get to turn you into the villain.”
My breath caught.
“Don’t protect me by letting her hurt you. And don’t let Cecelia grow up thinking her father was too weak to make his own choices.”
