“You called because your refusal stopped being private.”
“That is not why.”
“Then why now?”
He was silent.
Rebecca closed eyes.
“Exactly.”
“Rebecca.”
“Get tested if you want.”
“Contact donor team yourself.”
“I will not manage it.”
“I will not praise you.”
“I will not tell Lily yet.”
“That's fair.”
She almost hung up.
Then he said:
“Is she awake?”
Rebecca stared through room window.
“Yes.”
“Can I talk?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she needs consistency.”
“I’m her father.”
“Then act like one consistently.”
She ended call.
Her hands shook afterward.
Dr. Shah found her.
“Good conversation?”
“No.”
“Mark?”
“Yes.”
“Testing?”
“He says.”
Dr. Shah nodded.
Rebecca looked at her.
“Am I wrong not to tell Lily?”
“No.”
“When there’s something concrete, you decide.”
Rebecca leaned against wall.
“What if he’s the match?”
Dr. Shah thought.
“Then medicine and parenting become two separate questions.”
That was the answer.
A kidney could be a gift.
It did not automatically repair fatherhood.
Mark submitted.
His blood type was also compatible.
The hospital tested independently.
Rebecca received no details.
She did not ask.
Three days later, Raymond called.
“Can you meet downstairs?”
Rebecca’s heart jumped.
“Why?”
“Just come.”
“I hate that sentence.”
“I know.”
She found him outside the transplant office.
He sat alone.
No vest.
Gray T-shirt.
Jeans.
For first time, he looked older than huge.
Rebecca sat.
“What happened?”
He rubbed his hands.
“I’m not the donor.”
Her chest dropped.
“Why?”
“Anatomy.”
“What?”
“One kidney has vascular configuration they don't like.”
“The other’s better, but taking it would leave me with one they consider less ideal long-term.”
Rebecca closed eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I know that’s stupid.”
“It is.”
He smiled faintly.
Rebecca began crying anyway.
Not because Raymond owed Lily kidney.
Because she had let hope in.
Raymond sat beside her without touching.
After a minute:
“There’s more.”
She looked.